The Bizarre Life And Times of Robin Goodfellow
by Leslie Ann K
Summary: He had an unhealthy obsession with music. She didn't know who James Taylor was. He was a cynic. She'd had her fair share of disappointments, too. He was magic. She didn't have clue. And one day, they met. Sabrina/Puck, Puck POV. A top five in elligoat's BEST OF SISTERS GRIMM 2012 contest!
1. Counseling

**AN: Okay guys, I know this story is a bit AU, but it's my take on what would have happened if five things had never been done: 1. Scarlett Hand doesn't exist. 2. Sabrina's parents were never kidnapped. 3. Oberon never died. 4. Though Puck still resisted being married to Moth, he was never kicked out of Faerie and still has to marry her. 5. He was forced to grow to an age that he could marry by his mother, which he did because he knows his duty to the kingdom. **

** Okay? Thanks guys, please read and review!**

I've never really liked school. I guess I've made that apparent enough through the years; I ignore my homework to the point of despair, bomb my quizzes as often as I can, and even manage taunt teachers in my spare time. I've had quite a few suspensions, infinitely more detentions, and yet I'm still here.

I haven't actually figured out why.

Not why I'm still allowed in school at all; I know that already. I mean why I'm here, alone, in this room. Today. Now.

My pencil has been tapping the cherry wood desk for the past five minutes, keeping in time with my foot. The teacher hasn't arrived yet, though he was due ten minutes ago. In all my four years in the New York public school system, I've never once had a late teacher. It's a new experience, one, if I'd been in regular homeroom, would have enjoyed to the fullest. But today, two weeks into the first semester, I've already caused too much trouble to be in any "normal" homeroom. Instead, I've been put into morning counseling sessions. But I don't see what use a shrink is if he doesn't even bother to come. I continue to tap my yellow number two pencil impatiently.

Three minutes later, I decide he isn't coming. Besides, even if he is, I don't have anything to lose by being caught snooping in his office. Not that I will. Living with my family has taught me a lot in the sneak department.

I get up from the plush purple chair that I know is designed to help students relax while they spill their life story to the guy whose job it is to pretend he cares. And maybe he does, to some extent, but it's not enough to make the world a better place. It's probably not even enough to make the kid feel better. But it's something, so I don't voice my opinions. It's more than my father's doing for _his_ people, anyway. It's more than I'm doing.

The first thing I notice are the pictures on his desk. There's one of him and his wife, who looks around forty years old with pretty auburn hair and tortoiseshell glasses. They are standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, the one in Paris. They look happy, carefree. My stomach starts to knot, and I begin to feel jealous. But why am I envious? The fact that he has a family? I have that too, albeit a twisted, warped version of one. That he's happy? I'm a prince. I'm not supposed to be happy.

I tear my eyes away and land on another picture, this one of a little girl in a tiny pink dress who couldn't be more than three. His daughter, I'd wager.

Enough with the pictures, I tell myself. I need to know who this guy is. The best way to do that? His paperwork. I walk around, ignoring the mirrors that seem to cover every available surface, so much that the creamy yellow wallpaper is almost impossible to make out. I've never been here before, so I don't know how it was two years ago, before Mr. Cartel first started. And maybe that's a good thing. I don't really care.

My reflections stare back at me, mimicking my every move. It makes the room seem bigger than it actually is, messing with my sense of proportion. I run a hand through my curly hair and sigh. This is boring.

I walk around to the other side of the desk, open a drawer, and begin sifting through papers. Nothing incriminating. At all.

There's nothing else for me to do, so I go back to my seat and sink down as far as I can. At least during the interrogation, I'll be comfy.

That is how Mr. Gary Cartel finds me four minutes later, deep in my purple seat that in no way matches the décor, staring into space. He doesn't say anything, only sits down opposite to me in another comfortable chair of the same design, except in black. He shuffles through new papers I haven't looked at yet while I shift my eyes to him. I watch him for a while, until he puts them down and stares at me back. We are so silent that you could hear a pin drop.

"You are Robin Goodfellow?" he asks finally. I take a moment to consider.

"Yes," I tell him. It's one of my names, anyway.

"Sixteen years old?"

"Yes," I say again, biting my tongue to keep from saying _Actually, I'm around four thousand years old. Not that I keep track or anything._ _That's my mother's job. _Even though it's technically a lie, I've told it so many times it doesn't really feel like it anymore.

"Eleventh grade?"

"Yes," I repeat for the third time. Mr. Cartel is silent for a moment as he reads the paper in front of him.

"You're quite the troublemaker, aren't you?" he observes, moving on to the matter at hand.

This is where I crack.

"Obviously," I snap.

But Mr. Cartel doesn't seem fazed in the least. He only runs a hand through his graying brown hair and fixes his box-frame glasses which have slid slightly down his nose.

"Three days ago," he informs me, "You were involved in a prank that terrified Ms. Withers so much she quit her job. It says here," he checks it again, as if he isn't quite sure what he is reading, "that you dunked her in a vat of . . . gloop, as she put it, that contained mayonnaise, maple syrup, and . . . tortilla chips?" He looks to me for confirmation.

I only nod. Maybe a couple of years ago, I might have laughed in his face or said something obnoxious about it. But I'm not like that anymore, can't be. My mother has made sure of that.

"That's very…," Mr. Cartel seems at a loss for words. Adults tend to do that around me. What, I wonder? Mischievous? Evil? Insane? "Creative," he decides.

My eyes widen a fraction but that is it. Strange choice of words.

"What kind of family do you live with?" he asks suddenly.

Now it is me who is at a loss for words.

"Normal," I say, even though nothing could be further from the truth. I am not normal. My family is not normal. We never have been, and we never will be. We are not what we seem to be.

"And what is your definition of 'normal'?" he asks, still looking down his nose at his papers, which I assume are about me.

"Why do you need to know?" I evade answering with another question, because my brain won't work right. It can't think of a plausible definition for a word that doesn't relate to me at all.

"Robin," he says calmly, as if he deals with this all the time (and for all I know, he does), "I am your friend. I am here to listen to anything you would like to tell me."

I snort. Not likely.

"So is there anything you want to talk about?" he says, ignoring my snort.

"No," I say flatly.

He sighs as if he thinks my resistance is futile.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Robin. Go to first period."

I leave without another word.

** AN: Thanks for deciding to read this! **

** -Leslie Ann K.**


	2. I Irritate My Teacher and a New Student

**AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I know Puck is super OOC, but I kinda like him this way. Writing in the perspective of someone dumb is no fun (hey, that rhymes!). I'll explain why this is realistic in these circumstances in like a chapter or two, okay? You'll be completely satisfied then with my explanation, but for now, you'll just have to deal. And remember, Sabrina is trying to be friendly when she first sees Puck. So she's not OOC, okay? She just doesn't hate the world. You can read now. :)**

"Who can tell me the name of the main character in the novel Gone with the Wind?" Mrs. Windsor asks my third period English class. I'm not bothering to pay attention; I haven't read the book, and there's no reason for me to. In a few months, I'll have a kingdom to rule. Reading America's supposed greatest work of literature will do nothing to help me with that.

Mrs. Windsor is young, still at that stage where she hasn't been teaching long enough to hate children. She will, in a few years, but right now she's lax with rules and dismissive of homework. She's currently my favorite teacher. It's an accomplishment, 'cause I hate just about every other staff member.

Her turtleneck sweater makes her look short-necked and stumpy, mostly because she can't be any taller than five feet. I know she's only thirty, but sometimes she looks at least twice that. I can't imagine how either stupid or brave someone must be to teach. I'm betting on stupidity, though. You can make much more money doing much less dangerous things. Being in the army, for instance. Even espionage would pose less of a threat.

But then that's just me.

"Scarlett O'Hara is the main character," someone from the back answers. I don't turn around to see who.

"Exactly," Mrs. Windsor beams. I don't see why. It was an easy question even I could have answered. She's been talking about this book ever since we started school two weeks ago. It's been our homework to read it (though of course I never did). Only an idiot wouldn't have picked that up already. And whatever else I might be, I'm not an idiot.

"Now," she says, "we have already read through the first couple of chapters. What is our protagonist's, or hero's, main problem?"

"Scarlett wants to marry Ashley Wilkes," another student says, "but he's already engaged to Melanie Hamilton."

I snort loudly. Ashley isn't a _boy's_ name.

"Is something funny, Mr. Goodfellow?" Mrs. Windsor asks me. I've never really gotten why teachers insist on calling me by my last name now. Last year, first names were fine, but I am now known as _Mr. Goodfellow_. Seriously. The more you look at me, the funnier that gets.

"Yes," I say.

I can tell from her expression that she wasn't expecting that. She waits for me to explain for a minute, and when I don't, she asks, "Could you tell us what?"

I pause, as if weighing my options. "I could," I decide.

She waits some more, but I can already tell it's in vain. My lips are sealed shut, and she doesn't want to waste her time prying.

"I see," she says coldly.

"Do you?" I ask.

She narrows her eyes, and I realize I am witnessing the moment she begins to dislike children. There's something beautiful and slightly terrible about seeing her enthusiasm vanish, as if it was never there at all. I feel a pinprick of guilt trying to find its way in, but I quickly squish it. It was bound to happen eventually. Pity I could only enjoy her laid-back classroom for two weeks.

I'm silent throughout the rest of the lesson, trying to fight the guilt that's threatening to overwhelm me.

(**************************************************************************************)

_I'm not a terrible person,_ I reassure myself as I walk to my locker. English has just ended, and it's time for lunch. _I just have a twisted sense of humor. Or other people just aren't accepting enough to see my genius. Or maybe I'm just crazy,_ I muse._ But then,_ I remind myself, _only the best people are._ _So maybe it's not so bad, going bonkers. I wonder when you realize it. Do you even realize it at all? I'll have to ask the March Hare, or maybe the Mad Hatter, they probably –_

_ Ow_. I think, rubbing my arm. What did I do, hit a brick wall?

"I'm sorry! I've been such a klutz lately," a girl's voice says behind me.

"Wouldn't have noticed," I say sarcastically, and turn around. She's around five and a half feet, maybe a bit more, with long, wavy blond hair that frames her face. Her eyes are blue, a bit like the ocean, but right now it's one on a calm day, not much wind. She's wearing jeans and shiny black boots, with a gray t-shirt that advertises the fact that she's on a softball team. I guess she's cute, in a typical way.

"I've had my nose stuck in this map for the past day," she explains, holding a piece of paper up, "Could you _possibly_ tell me where the cafeteria is? I've been looking for it for the past five minutes." She's definitely exasperated, but not annoyed, not yet. I smile. I like irritating people. It's not often that I get to do it.

"So you're new?" I ask, because it's not like it isn't obvious.

She narrows her eyes. "What could have possibly given you that idea? Was it the map? Or my complete incapability of finding the cafeteria?"

"I'd like to think it was neither and that it was my superior intuition that sensed it."

"You use big words when you want to feel like you're better than other people," the girl observes.

"What are you? A psychologist?"

"I would have thought your superior intuition would already know the answer to that," she smirks.

I stiffen. "Why are you starting on the second week, anyway?"

"I was kicked out of my old school," she wrinkles her nose in disdain.

"Why?" I ask, curious despite myself. What could she possibly have done? She doesn't look particularly rebellious.

"I was in a fight," she said nonchalantly, "Actually, it was my third one. I was only suspended the two times before."

"Ah," I grin and cross my arms, "You lost, didn't you?"

"No," she says coolly. I can tell she isn't lying.

"She was half your size?" I'm still smiling. It's funny watching her squirm.

"_He_," she emphasizes, "was bigger."

"Sure," I shake my head, disbelieving.

"Really!" she insists.

"I believe you," I say in a patronizing tone.

"No, you don't," she sighs in defeat.

"What could have possibly given you that idea?" I mimic, "Was it the tone? The disbelieving shake of the head? Or maybe the fact that your story isn't likely at all? Come on," I smirk, "you were getting bullied or something at your old school, weren't you?"

Her face turns tomato red, and I know I've struck a nerve.

"The fight wasn't about me," she whispers, and I know at once that it's true. The remorse I felt earlier is clawing back up, trying to find a place where it can eat me from inside out. But I won't let it.

"Look-," I start to say, but she cuts me off.

"No. You know what?" and she looks at me with such pure hatred it makes me wince, "I'll find the lunchroom myself. I don't even know why I told you all that. I wasn't going to tell anybody, but then you-," she stops, and glares at me, "Never mind. Have a nice life."

She turns and stalks in the opposite direction of the cafeteria. She is gone before I realize that I don't even know her name.

**AN: In answer to my one anonymous reviewer: Thanks for saying this is one of the good fanfics! It means a lot to me. **

**Thanks for reviewing, those who did! :) You guys really made my day! PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! That's the only way I can tell if anyone likes this story or not! **

**Thanks a bunch!**

**-Leslie Ann K. :)**


	3. A Simple Lunchroom Conversation

"You have seventeen dollars and forty-two cents left in your account," the lunch lady informs me monotonously, "Have a nice day."

It's my cue to leave, even if she doesn't mean a word of it, and I do, mostly because there's no reason to stay. That's my life in a nutshell: everything I do must have a purpose. Otherwise it's just not worth doing.

Besides, the huge mole on the lunch lady's left cheek has sprouted some hair over the weekend. A person can only stare at something like that for so long without being emotionally scarred for life.

After telling her to have a nice day as well under my breath (Mother has a way of rubbing off on people, and not necessarily by their consent, either), I take my blue tray. Today it consists of pizza that tastes as if it's made from cardboard, a carton of milk that probably expired way before the school was built, and an apple that has long since rotted. But I don't mind, not much, anyway. I don't eat like I used to.

I'm halfway across the cafeteria before I see her. The girl who basically told me her life story and then made it pretty clear she hated me, the one with no name. She's grabbing a sugar cookie, and I grin because I know she can't possibly see why no one else is; she doesn't know that the cookies are as hard as rocks and about as tasty. She really has no clue, I realize. Maybe I should change that, my better nature tells me. Or maybe I should irritate her just a little more, my less-than-angelic part appeals, because let's be honest. It's funny watching her squirm.

I loiter for a bit by the ketchup and mayo station, waiting for her to finish paying for her lunch. She's almost done when I start to wonder why I'm even doing this. I'm not nice; you don't get the name "Trickster King" for helping old ladies cross the street. I'm…what's that word? Devious? _Mustardseed isn't doing that great of a job of educating me to be the smart ruler like Mother wants, _I reflect, _if I can barely remember a vocabulary lesson I had maybe a month ago. With luck, I'll probably forget how to count, too, and then Faerie will be broke _and_ on the brink of rebellion. _

I've been kidding myself so far, thinking things I don't really mean. I know Mustardseed tries his best and that I'm not the easiest student (my permanent record speaks for itself). Faerie might go broke, and the people that belong to it may be unsatisfied enough to revolt, but I can't really imagine it. I guess I'm afraid that if I can, it'll stop being a half-dream and become closer to reality than I would like. And if I don't have Faerie, what's left? What's my purpose in life then?

It's a sign of how deeply my forced engagement to Moth has changed me. I'm nothing without my kingdom now. It's sad, it's insane, and most of all, it's true. I'm exactly the son my father wants me to be. I don't even feel the need to prank people like I used to (though I still do it a lot more than necessary according to my victims), and personally, that's what scares me the most. I'm losing my identity. Isn't that a crime? Identity theft? But in my case, who's the victim and who's the criminal?

She's done now, grabbing her likewise blue lunch tray and heading towards a small table which can't seat more than six people in the back corner, and without thinking, I follow her. No doubt my friends are wondering where I am now. But I'm Robin Goodfellow here, not Puck, the future-king-to-be. Here, I'm allowed to be unexpected and immature. Encouraged, really. At school, _that's_ my identity. Yet even that's a lie, something in me whispers, but I shut it out. I don't need my conscience butting in. I have everything perfectly under control.

She sits, completely oblivious to my presence and stares at her food as if waiting for it to tell her something. What, I have no idea.

"I see you found it," I say, meaning the cafeteria, as means of introduction. She doesn't even look up from her plate.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

"Yeah," she says after a minute, and lifts her head to look at me, "I asked a human being that actually had a heart."

"Ouch," I say, "That was low. Especially the no-heart thing."

"Why are you stalking me?" she asks bluntly. This girl's about as subtle as a gun.

"I'm not stalking you," I say mildly, "I just happened to have a chance encounter with you and then, out of the goodness of my non-existent heart," I glare meaningfully at her, "decided to offer you my help."

"Your help in what?" she narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"See," I explain, and take a fry from her tray without asking, "this place is secretly a hellhole disguised as a kid-friendly learning environment. I don't know if you knew that already. You look like a goody-goody," I pause, letting her digest the insult, "Point is, you're gonna get eaten alive if you don't have _someone_."

"It's not so bad," she shrugs.

"You ever been to school before?"

"No," she says sarcastically, "I was raised by wolves."

"Good to know," I say without blinking, knowing my calm exterior is annoying the heck out of her right now, "but the fact is, school's school."

"Translation?" she cocks an eyebrow.

"Academics are easy. Social part's hard."

"I never said I wanted to be _social_," she says, crinkling her nose in disgust.

"You're a loner?" I seriously doubt this, though I don't know why.

"I'm just not good with people," she avoids the question.

"Yeah, I can see how the whole _I-hate-the-world_ vibe can kinda turn people off."

"So?"

"_So_, what are you gonna do about it?"

"I'm not going to do anything because I don't want to."

I consider my next move.

"You ever had a friend before?" I ask.

"Like I said, raised by wolves," she says lightly, "You don't get much of a chance there."

"I'm gonna take that as a no," I decide out loud.

"I don't need anyone," she says stiffly.

"I never said you needed friends. I just thought you might like some."

"Are you bipolar?" she asks out of the blue. Avoiding the issue. _Again_.

"Yes," I answer immediately anyway, "You should try it sometime. It gives you all kinds of ways to get out of trouble."

"You're really clever in a really creepy way."

"Give it time," I say airily, "You'll pick it up from me eventually."

"Wait, are you asking to be _friends_ with me?" she asks in disbelief.

For a moment, my instinct is to deny it. That hadn't been my intention coming over here. All I wanted to do was needle her a bit more, maybe get a whole sworn-enemy thing going on. School is my amusement, like a sitcom I get to write and star in. But this is unplanned. And my curiosity gets the better of me; I want to see where this goes.

"I thought it was already a done deal," I say after my quick, careful deliberation.

She hesitates, "Fine. I'm Sabrina," she says as an after-thought, "I don't think I ever told you that."

"And I'm Robin," I say as I get up to leave, taking my untouched lunch with me, "Robin Goodfellow."

I'm about to go when she puts her hand on my arm, stopping me for a moment.

"I'm really bad at thanking people," she says, "Just thought you'd like to know."

"I'll keep that in mind," I smirk, "That way, I won't have to wonder."

She lets go as if she'd been burned.

"Good luck with that." Great. I've set her off.

"What, you think you're hard to figure out?" I challenge.

"I know I am," she glares.

"Really?"

"Didn't I just say so?"

She's getting mad, and I don't especially want to put an end to our three-minute friendship. That wouldn't be interesting at all. So I break into a smile and say, "Touché."

Sabrina visibly relaxes.

"I'll see you later, I guess," she says uncertainly.

"Maybe," I shrug. Then I see her expression and chuckle. "I'm _kidding_. God, I think I might actually be right about that friend thing."

And I walk away as fast as I can because I really don't want to stick around to hear her reply. You just don't mess with people like that. Most common cause of insanity anywhere.

**AN: **

** So now to my anonymous reviewers. There were a lot of you! :)**

** maylona99: Thanks! Basically, the way I work is I write a chapter for this, post it, then write one for my other story, post that, and the cycle goes on and on and on until I finish one of them. :)**

** Lobster Soil: LOL, I love your name. Thanks for your only complaint being that these chapters should be longer! And I think by now everyone knows I have a super weird book-crush on Puck. I'm not the only one, though, judging from certain things! :)**

** Kira: (I have TWO best friends with the same name! How weird is that?) Of course I'll keep writing! But the quality (and hopefully the quality's actually **_**good**_**) is a bit hard to maintain, so there might be some pauses.**

** To all my other guest reviewers who didn't sign their names but who reviewed anyway (of which there were 3): Thanks so much! It really means a bunch to me! :) (And yes, I realize I use smiley faces a lot to those who were wondering).**

** Thanks a bunch and REVIEW people!**

** -Leslie Ann K. **


	4. Marriage Plans

**AN: Sorry it's been so long! Oh, and I am not trying to offend anyone Irish, so I will tell you now: I realize my attempt at an Irish accent absolutely sucks. Sorry in advance.**

The walk to the Hans Christian Anderson statue is sunny and pleasant. I linger more than I need to, circling a small pond again and again for no reason other than it feels nice to waste time. Eventually though, I have turn around and head back.

"Knock knock," I say as I place a hand on the statue.

"Who's there?" it booms back.

"Annie."

"Annie who?"

"Annie-body there?" I smile wryly at my bad joke.

The statue chuckles loudly.

"Welcome back."

Then to the casual passerby, I disappear.

(***)

Mustardseed is at my side the moment I step into the Golden Egg. "Mother wishes to see you immediately."

I sigh. "I have Tactics and Self-Defense today. Do you know how long this'll take?"

"You know she doesn't tell me anything," Mustardseed says.

"And she tells _me_ even less," I point out. "I don't know how she expects us to rule a kingdom if we're always the last to know. Seriously. Half our subjects could _die_ and we'd find out from Mama."

"You," Mustardseed says quietly, "When _you_ rule the kingdom."

"Mustardseed," I say as I acknowledge the six dwarfs, "we both know that if you don't help me, this place'll be a train wreck in a year."

"Maybe," he says. I don't press it. He leaves and I continue to walk alone, stopping only to chat with the occasional Everafter.

"How's the family, Bob?" I ask the goblin standing guard over Mother's office. I try to tell myself that I am not stalling. Just making friendly conversation.

"The children's getting a handful for Josie, if ya know what I mean," Bob says in his heavy, 16th century Irish accent, "Me one daughter's already reading, if you can believe!"

"She's what, three?" I ask with polite interest.

"They be growing fast," he shakes his head, "Next thing ya know, they working and paying for they own apartment!"

"Enjoy it while you can, yeah?" I smile.

Bob grins back ruefully. "Maybe when you have yer own lit' tykes."

"Uh, sure." I try not to gag at the horrible mental picture that gives me. Thank God Moth isn't around right now.

I open the marble door and step through tentatively. Maybe this'll be a quick chat about my latest detention or something trivial like that. Maybe this won't be bad news at all.

Except if Mother didn't like to deliver bad news personally, she wouldn't be Mother.

She's waiting for me in a chair behind a sprawling oak desk, her hair piled into an extravagant beehive hairdo and her eyes huge behind evidently fashionable glasses that make her seem like a normal, workaholic mom. Her suit is impeccable as always, not one crease to be found. But she smoothes it anyway and brushes away a non-existent strand of hair.

"How was your day at school?" she asks as if it actually matters to her.

"Fine," I answer suspiciously as I plop down on the smaller, less comfortable chair on the other side of the desk.

"Good, good." She takes some papers from her desk, ruffles through them, and then sets them down again. She's nervous. That's not good. Not good at all.

I wait a couple of seconds to see if she has anything else to say. When she doesn't, I ask something instead.

"What did you want?"

"Oh nothing, nothing. I haven't seen you all week, Puck. Is it a crime for a mother to want to see her son?"

I laugh aloud. "Okay, how bad is it?"

"Puck, I know you don't like Moth very much, _despite_," her voice is laced with venom as she says this, "the fact that it is your duty to your kingdom to be her devout fiancé. But recent events have caused us to force our hand. The wedding has been moved from in two years to three months from now."

My jaw drops.

"You can't be serious!" I exclaim, "That's not even legal!"

"It is if the parents consent," she says as if it were a perfectly natural occurrence.

"I won't do it," I immediately say.

"It's your duty."

"My duty can go—," I stop when Mother fixes me with her trademark glare.

"Leave me now. I have work to do."

I oblige, because any argument would only result in direct humiliation.

I go to the nearest wall I can find and punch it so hard my knuckles become a bloody mess.

**AN: As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm having a bit of a Sisters Grimm writer's block (I say this because it only applies to my fanfiction for some reason). So, yeah. Not that great of an excuse, but there it is. **

** Now here's to my guests!**

** BigB: Thanks for the ego boost! Those are always welcome :). And anyways, off topic, but I once met this girl who pronounced Canada Can-AY-dia. And Canadians were Can-AH-dians. It was quite weird. But I've been to Toronto and it's super awesome! I actually saw the Queen of England there (long story, but I have pictures of her!). So, yeah. I also like maple syrup a lot if that counts for anything. :)**

** Lobster Soil: Is there a story behind that name? It sounds pretty interesting. O.o. Puck, in my opinion, becomes a whole lot cuter with each brain cell he gains! Cause frankly, I'm a sucker for curly hair! :)**


	5. Mustardseed and I Have a Talk

**AN: Hey guys! I haven't forgotten you, I promise! :D I've just gotten super into this book I'm trying to write. On page 57 if anyone cares. :)**

I'm in the middle of my self-defense class when Mustardseed walks in.

He doesn't say anything at first, merely observes me. But then I guess he sees that I'm somewhat preoccupied; trying to block punches from a five-hundred year old karate master isn't as easy as it might sound.

True, Jahn is technically only half my age in the body of a twenty-five year old, I think as I narrowly dodge a kick to the stomach, but he has a killer right hook. I can respect that.

Sweat pours in rivers down my back. My hands are slick with perspiration and my hair is soaked. My shirt has been reduced to a wet rag and the strength has long since left my body. But I don't stop. I can't. My body needs this, to be able to vent without retribution. It has to, for once in its life, to feel in control. Alive. Free.

It's been such a long time since I've ever found that anywhere else.

Jahn suddenly jams a knee into my thigh and I fall over in surprise. Then I silently curse myself. I have to stop getting so distracted.

I quickly retaliate, trying to kick him in the ankle from my position on the ground. I manage, but it's weak, not enough to do any serious damage. He probably doesn't feel it at all, I think bitterly.

Agony explodes in the pit of my stomach as he drives the heel of his boot in. I hiss in pain but continue struggling to rise. Jahn doesn't let me, responding only by applying more pressure to my stomach. My breath comes out in short spurts, not even long or deep enough to be called gasps.

"Surrender," Jahn smirks, looking completely unaffected by the exertion. His slightly slanted eyes and jet-black hair hint at a Japanese heritage, an unusual phenomenon for Everafters.

"Never," I choke out. He presses harder until my lips turn blue from lack of oxygen. I slowly lift my hands as a sign of submission. He releases me warily, alert for a possible surprise attack. He should know me better; that tactic has failed so many times I've abandoned it.

"Good work," I say and reach my hand out for a handshake. Jahn claps it warmly.

"As always." He steps off the floor mat and leaves the gym, evidently content with my performance today.

After he goes, I turn to Mustardseed. "What is it?"

He shakes his head, "I just felt like you needed someone to talk to."

I crack a smile. "What? Do you and I have some secret empathy link I need to know about?"

He mirrors my grin. "Not exactly. It's more of a sibling thing."

I'm silent for a moment. It's true, everything he's said so far. Mustardseed and I have always seemed to have this…connection, for lack of a better word. At times, it's slightly annoying, but right now, I'm grateful. Today hadn't been what I'd expected. Mustardseed is one of the most rational people I know; maybe he'd have some idea of what had gone wrong.

I plop down on the huge floor mat in defeat. Mustardseed sits down next to me, waiting for me to begin.

But I don't, not right away. I let my eyes skim the weight lifting station in the corner and pull-up bar across from me. They wander over to the door to the swimming pool and then to the basketball court and soccer field. The gym's much bigger than a small supply closet should hold. But magic's like that. It makes as many things convenient as it does inconvenient. It's hard to define that way.

"I met this girl today," I say.

"And let me guess," Mustardseed says, "She screamed bloody murder because you ruined her hair."

"No, that was months ago," I wave the idea away, "This one asked me where the cafeteria was and I annoyed her a bit."

"What's so unusual about that?"

"Nothing!" I throw my hands in the air, "Except I saw her again at lunch _and I went to go talk to her_."

Mustardseed is unmoved.

"So you like her. What's so bad about that?"

"I don't like her!" I protest.

"No," he corrects, "You just can't. Your marriage to Moth is in three months."

"She's human, anyway," I mutter.

He shrugs. "What does that matter?"

"I can't do this to someone," I explain, "I can't make them accept that fairy-tale creatures are real and then just_ expect _them to help me rule people they were taught since they were little _didn't exist_. I wouldn't wish this hell on anyone."

"Someone's got to do it," Mustardseed says, rising.

I don't say anything because I know, no matter how much I might hate it, that he is right.

**AN: So we got some more angst going on…what's gonna happen? Well, that's for me to think about and YOU to find out! :) Happy belated Olympics everyone!**

**To my anonymous reviewers: **

**Lobster Soil: Wow that story sounds interesting…XD. And curly hair has EVERYTHING to do with it! I love curly hair on guys. Is that bad? O.o And there will certainly be more Sabrina-Puck interactions! Just gotta find a way to make them realistic…**

**Reading Fanatic: I think you just paid me maybe the best compliment in my entire life. Seriously. That you could like THIS story better than the original book series is beyond belief. You made my day. Like, three times over. THANK YOU SO MUCH!**

**Frequent Flier: Again, an enormous compliment. The fact that you don't like most fanfiction for this series and would STILL give mine a chance? Huge. THANK YOU! :D**

**Guest: Puck's getting married to Moth in three months. :) Interested to see how THIS'LL turn out (yep, I'm one of THOSE writers whose plot just comes to them. Don't know if it's good or bad). And thanks!**

** Guys, if you keep this up, I'm gonna get spoiled! :D Thanks to everyone who reads this fanfic and takes the time to review. This shows you really appreciate all the hard work I'm putting in. And those couple words make it well worth my time. **

** Thanks a bunch and REVIEW!**

** -Leslie Ann K.**


	6. Dinner and Tea

**AN: Hey everyone! I've noticed in the reviews that I need to address a few points. So:**

**Some people didn't get Puck's conversation with Mustardseed in the last chapter. This is what happened: Puck says he met Sabrina. Mustardseed tells him that he obviously likes her. Puck denies it, but Mustardseed tells him the only reason he's lying to himself is that he has to marry another girl soon. Puck doesn't deny it this time, saying that he couldn't like Sabrina anyway because she's human. Mustardseed asks why, and Puck says because he doesn't want to put them under the pressure he's been under his whole life (But Moth wants to rule, so she's okay. Plus, you know, she's kinda crazy). Mustardseed then says that someone has to do it. Okay guys?**

**SABRINA DOES NOT KNOW ABOUT EVERAFTERS!**

**I'm not sure whether Veronica is going to still be helping the Everafters and whether Daphne is going to be in there, simply because it adds a whole 'nother layer of complexity I'm not sure this story needs. And I REALLY do not want to make this story cheesy.**

**Special Message: I have this one friend (who actually introduced me to fanfic in the first place) who has written a really awesome Harry Potter fanfic called 'A Delve Into Shadows'. She goes by the pen name siriusfreddobbylupin. Please check it out! It's really good!**

Two hours later, I'm wearing a pair of old jeans that should have been washed days ago and a Green Day t-shirt with a very noticeable hole on one sleeve. Mother would disapprove.

Perfect.

I check my watch again. Dinner started at seven. It's five minutes past that. I'm officially late.

Maybe it's petty to make little rebellions like that against my parents, but it's all I _can_ do. Nothing else fazes them, not my threats, not my arguments. I guess that's because they know that, deep inside, I take my duty too seriously to ever actually leave.

I'm four thousand years old and I'm still my parent's puppet to be manipulated as they please. It's depressing.

I take a moment to carefully compose my features into the indifferent expression I know drives everyone crazy. I make sure my shoes are untied and the bruises I got from Jahn are clearly displayed.

Like bloody hell I'm marrying Moth without a fight.

I grasp the handles of the huge golden double doors and push them open with a loud _screech_. My mother had them installed four hundred years ago. They haven't been oiled in nearly that long.

"Good evening," I say as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

I see with much satisfaction that my father is slowly turning into a human tomato and my mother looks on the brink of a rant. Only Mustardseed calmly sips his tea, not at all affected by my appearance or lateness.

I take my seat on my father's right hand as if nothing is unusual. Mustardseed is on my right with my mother directly across from me. Father presides at the head of the long table that I'm certain could easily fit fifty people.

Nothing has been served yet, other than the mint tea, probably due to my absence. The china cups are untouched, save for Mustardseed's. Mother and Father are angry. That's just as well, I think as I lean back in my chair. It'll make this all the simpler.

"What are you wearing?" Mother hisses. I look to Mustardseed's Italian suit—I hate suits with a burning passion—, Father's likewise attire, and Mother's extravagant dress and pearls. Then I glance down at my own ratty t-shirt and jeans.

"Clothes," I shrug.

"Go change," she orders.

"No," I say as I sip the scalding hot tea, not really tasting it.

"_Go_."

"I will glue myself to this chair if I have to," I say as if it doesn't matter to me either way.

"Robin Goodfellow, if you know what's good for you, you will—."

"If I knew what was good for me, I would have run away years ago," I fix my gaze on her, "But I haven't. It's not because of you or Father or even Mustardseed. It's because I've always put the good of others before myself."

"You think that dressing like _that_ is good for others?" Mother looks like she's about to bite my head off.

"I think convincing you not to marry me off to Moth is."

She chuckles, "Moth is a very nice girl."

"She's a psychopath with really weird eyebrows," I deadpan.

"Puck," Father cuts in, "As you teenagers say these days. Deal in it."

I give him an odd look.

"Don't you mean 'Deal with it'?"

"Yes, yes, that," he waves the correction away, "You are marrying her. There is simply no other option."

"I could run away," I say like I'm seriously toying with the idea.

Mother and Father don't answer. They just continue to sip their tea like they've already won. And, I realize, they have.

I stand up as the first course starts arriving. No one makes a move to stop me, and I storm out of the dining room with a look that says _Bother me and I'll kill you_.

I need some coffee. Badly.

**AN: Thanks so much for all the awesome reviews I got! 18 just for the last chapter! And 64 for only FIVE chapters! Awesomeness!**

**Sorry about all these background chapters, but they need to be here! I mean, Puck DOES do things other than go to school and talk to Sabrina. Sorry!**

**To my amazing anonymous reviewers: **

** Guest: No, Sabrina does not know about fairy-tales (as I said above).**

** same guest: Sorry, but what plot thing?**

** Guest: Thank you! But why the tear? :)**

** Arieh: Still haven't decided yet, but I have a pretty good idea… :)**

** Rose Red: Thanks so much! Yeah, I'm still thinking about the Daphne part, but then I guess I won't know until I write it!**

** Sabrina: Luv your name, LOL. Thanks! I need to put in these background chapters first, but there will be much Puckabrina in the future!**

** Lobster Soil: Can you believe the fact that I hadn't actually thought about Moth until I read your review? I am an idiot *sighs*. I guess it's because, well, you know, he has THREE WHOLE MONTHS until he gets married and I'm six chapters in and it's still day one, well…. :). But no worries, she will appear later in the story!**

** guest: Thank you!**

** BigB: OMG, I your review was so fun to read! Probably the longest I've ever had, too! I mean, I was absolutely…speechless. And amused. Don't forget that. :) What I think about when I think of Canada….maple leaves. DON'T SHOOT! :D. And I'd absolutely love to go to Quebec. THANK YOU SO MUCH! Like, a bazillion times over. Seriously. :D It's words like those people need to hear when they need to write and don't know how to go about it. You've done more than you know!**

** THANKS A BUNCH AND REVIEW!**

** -Leslie **


	7. Coffee

**AN: Hey guys. I'm going to address the anonymous reviewers first on this update.**

** To everyone who doesn't know, PenguinLoverGurl's father was attacked overseas and is currently in surgery. Please pray for him and her family.**

** PenguinLoverGurl: There are few, core beliefs I hold about life: I believe that there is Someone Up There, call him God, call him Allah, but I think there is. I believe that things happen for a reason but that there is no such thing as destiny. That's because I believe that people are defined with how they deal with the problems life gives them.**

** And I guess what I'm saying is that I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the wreck your life must be right now, I'm sorry it had to happen at all, and most of all I'm sorry because there's nothing else I can say. I hope to God your father gets better, I really do, and even though I don't know you I hope you're still okay afterwards. I hope he is, too.**

** Lobster Soil: Thanks. **

** Disclaimer: I do not own the book **_**Looking for Alaska**_** by John Green, the book from which Puck quotes a sentence.**

The thing about New York coffee houses is that they aren't, in any sense of the word, particularly pleasant.

The staff is irritable at best, downright incompetent and hell to deal with at worst, and the complicated drink names with so-and-so combinations always make me wish I'd had the foresight to take a bottle of Advil. Coffee house are one of those curious places where the lines never seem to move and you're expected to make around twenty different decisions all revolving around the simple question of how you would prefer that brown, tasteless sludge in front of you to be made drinkable.

It's apparently a very complex process.

But I always ended up at the Starbucks on West 57th Street at least once a week anyway, often enough that by now the cashiers know my name and what I like to drink. It's a small blessing, really. It saves me a lot of breath this way.

It's 7:30 on a Monday night, so it's practically deserted save for a middle-aged man with a rather large potbelly reading a newspaper in the corner. I get in line behind a college student and wait impatiently while she orders her decaf, French-vanilla-extra-chocolate-sauce-but-no-caramel-cappuccino. Three minutes later, she receives her cup and is gone, door swinging behind her.

I exhale in relief and step towards counter. It's several moments before the cashier notices me.

"Can I get you something?" she asks like it's her millionth time today and she would really like nothing more than to go stab the guy who's idea it was that coffee places needed customer service in the first place.

I glance quickly at her name tag, which reads Hi-My-Name-Is-Karmin-How-Can-I-Help-You? Shoot. Not one of my regulars.

"I'd like a mocha frappé, extra whipped cream, please."

"Size?" Hi-My-Name-Is-Karmin asks doubtfully.

God, I haven't had to say this in so long. What were the sizes called again?

"Largest one you got," I say, extracting some crumpled dollar bills from my jeans.

"You want a Venti, then?"

"Is that the largest?" I cock an eyebrow, my hands no longer smoothing out the messed-up bills.

"Yeah," Hi-My-Name-Is-Karmin answers reproachfully.

"Then that's what I want," I say, slapping a twenty dollar bill down on the counter.

I mean, it's not rocket science, is it?

It takes a whole five minutes for Hi-My-Name-Is-Karmin-How-Can-I-Help-You? to make the coffee, calculate my total, grab the twenty-dollar bill, carefully count my change, and print out the receipt. When I'm finally done, I sit at a little table for two near the door and stare down my coffee, wondering whether that whole ordeal was actually worth a pretty expensive cup of chilled liquid with some whipped cream on top.

Then I start sipping it and figure, yeah, life might suck but there's still nothing better than a good old-fashioned sugar high.

(****)

The last thing I expect is to see her, but I guess she likes coffee on her tough days, too. She certainly looks like it; her face is red with frustration and her blond hair is tangled and loose like she can't be bothered with it. She clutches a thin book under her arm and is wearing a light tan sweater even though it's only September. She doesn't see me at first, and for some reason I don't want her to. I'm okay with just looking at her, just noticing the way she scrunches her nose when she sees all the choices and the mechanical way she orders like it couldn't matter less.

It's only when she's on her way out that I finally speak.

"Sabrina?" I ask as if I'm not quite positive. At the sound of my voice she hesitates, like she isn't sure she should stop.

"Robin?" She turns around slowly.

"Hell of a day for you, too?" I acknowledge her coffee.

"Yeah." Her mouth curves into a small smile, but I get the feeling it's her first real one in a while. She bites her lip like she's debating whether to ask something.

"Mind if I sit?" she asks suddenly.

"'Course not," I shrug, motioning to the chair.

But I'm completely unprepared for the painful awkward silence that comes next, in which we quietly drink our respective coffees, not knowing what to say.

"What're you reading?" I ask lamely after a while because I can't think of anything else, nodding to her book. She immediately brightens and I hope to God she isn't a nerd or I will personally—

"It's a biography on Thomas Edison."

I nearly choke on my mocha frappé. "_Why_?" What kind of sick, twisted person would torture themselves with that?

Sabrina doesn't seem to notice. "I like last words."

"Last words?"

"You know, what people say before they die."

"Tad morbid, isn't it?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Maybe." Her eyes look hazy, like she's off on another world.

"So do you know his?" I ask.

She snaps back to reality. "Who's?"

"Yours," I say flatly. She looks back at me uncomprehending. "I'm _kidding_," I roll my eyes, "Thomas Edison's, of course."

"He said, 'It's very beautiful over there.'"

"'I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful'," I murmur, finishing one of my favorite quotes.

She gives me a strange look. "What?

"Nothing. It's from a book my brother made me read."

"Funny. I didn't know you _could_ read." She smirks.

"You weren't the only one, either," I grin, but neither of us are really in the mood to laugh tonight. We've both had bad days and right now, it's just enough to know you're not alone. Because we don't know each other, not really, and the reality is that we never will. And that makes me a bit sad, somewhere, but I push it down because I don't want anything to ruin this moment: Me and a girl I barely know drinking some coffee in a second-rate Starbucks because we both had a hell day and don't know how else to deal with it.

After that, the silence doesn't feel awkward at all. We don't talk because we don't have to.

**AN: Yeah, maybe they're a bit OOC here, but remember, both had bad days, not really snarky. **

** -Leslie**


	8. The Next Morning

**AN: I'm back! Sorry it's been such a long time. School started for me two weeks ago and I've been doing my homework until 6:30, 7:00 pm every night. And I start it at four. So, yeah. Enjoy! :)**

I'm ten minutes late when I walk into the counseling office next morning. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and collapse into the purple chair, doing my best to avoid Mr. Cartel's gaze. I don't tell him why I wasn't here earlier—I barely slept last night, partly because of the coffee, but mostly because of all the wedding nightmares—and he doesn't ask. He simply looks at me, and for some reason, that feels worse. I shift uncomfortably in my chair and become very interested in my shoes.

"Good morning, Robin," he says, peering at me over his spectacles. I murmur something unintelligible that I hope sounds like a greeting.

"Did you sleep well last night?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. When in doubt, use one-syllable answers. It drives adults crazy and requires almost no effort.

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"Of course," I lie. My stomach rumbles moments after I reply. I wince slightly.

"I see," he says and writes something down on a piece of paper inside a very official-looking folder. I bite my lip.

He finishes and straightens in his chair, closes the folder, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sighs as if he's preparing to bestow great wisdom upon me.

"Robin, I know it's hard to believe when people say they know how you feel. But I promise you." He leans closer, staring intently, "_I_ know."

For a second, I have the bizarre urge to laugh. But as his meaning starts to trickle in, I can't help but feel _sorry_ for the guy. He went to school for years, read endless books and did endless homework, all so he could help kids get through high school. Being a shrink, I figure, is pretty thankless work.

"Um, not that that isn't reassuring," I start, wondering how to put this without ending up in an asylum, "but I seriously doubt it."

"And why is that?" Mr. Cartel asks, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

I struggle for a reason.

"Because I'm different," I finally say, firmly.

"You're different," he repeats.

"Yeah."

"And what," he asks in a patronizing tone that makes me grit my teeth, "is so different about you?"

"Family." It comes out immediately, like a defense mechanism. "My family's strange."

"How so?"

"My mother's a nutcase, my father's a workaholic with anger issues, and my brother's homeschooled."

Mr. Cartel doesn't blink. I hate his lack of reaction. What, does he think that's _normal?_ Do all kids have to deal with _that?_

"Why is your brother's homeschooling strange? Many teenagers are alternatively educated these days."

I roll my eyes. "Because he can't use school as an excuse for avoiding them."

"You don't like your parents?" For some reason, he seems interested now. Warning: Thin ice. Tread lightly.

"Of course I love them." And it's true; I do love them. I just don't like them. "They just . . . pressure me into doing a lot of things I don't want to do."

"Like what?" God, he's nosy.

_Marrying a lunatic. Ruling a kingdom. Wearing that pink tie on Christmas two years ago._

"They don't like my clothes," I say aloud.

"Your clothes," he repeats skeptically.

"Or my girlfriends," I add hurriedly. I don't tell him that I've never actually had a girlfriend. Just a fiancé.

"Ah," he nods, as if he understands now. I sigh in relief; I've said the right thing.

"They're set on this one girl whose parents they've known for a long time," I continue, trying to keep him happy.

"And you don't like this girl."

"She's a psychopath," I explain.

"They won't settle for any other girl?"

"Nope." Or at least, they wouldn't. If I had one. Which I don't.

"Well Robin, maybe if I called them in and—."

"No!" I yell, standing up suddenly. "You _can't_ do that."

"Wouldn't it help your situation?" he asks curiously.

"The less they know, the better," I say as I grab my backpack. I'm almost out the door when Mr. Cartel's voice stops me.

"I don't expect you to tell me your life story, Robin. I don't expect you to tell me anything at all. But . . . you're not happy. You don't need a degree to know that. My advice is talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me. Maybe a friend, or your brother. Can you do that?"

I'm out the door before he finishes speaking.

**AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! 15 more reviews and this story will hit 100!**

**THE SEVENTH SKULDUGGERY PLEASANT BOOK CAME OUT TODAY! (If anyone reads them, you'll know they're only published in the U.K. and Australia. Since I live in America, I have to order them. *sigh* They are SO worth it, though. Read it if you haven't yet! :)**

** To my AMAZING anonymous reviewers (logged-in reviewers I always try to reply to, but just so you know you are ALSO awesome):**

** Lobster Soil: It's been so long! :) Yeah, that last chapter was sort of depressing…my friends say my writing is WAY too depressing. I agree. :) Old habits die hard, I guess.**

** Stupidusername: I love your name! XD. Thanks so much! :) I'll try not to disappoint!**

** Guest: THANKS SO MUCH! :D**

** PenguinLoverGurl: Thanks so much! I hope things work out for you. :D**

** The Mystery Keeper: Thanks! I try to make them as realistic as possible. If they are ever not, let me know! That's a big pet peeve of mine, realism. :)**

** THANKS A BUNCH TO EVERYONE WHO READS THIS! Let's try to get those hundred reviews, yeah? ;)**

** -Leslie Ann K.**


	9. Puzzle Pieces

**AN: I'm so sorry! I have just been so caught up with school (everyone's excuse, I know) to write. :( But on the bright side, this story reached 103 reviews! YAY!**

** IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: I have posted a story on FictionPress (the original story counterpart of FanFiction) called "Lina Seymour". It is under the same pen name of Leslie Ann K. PLEASE check it out and leave a review!**

"We have to stop meeting like this."

At first, I don't realize she's talking to me. I'm loitering around the counseling waiting room, trying to look like I have every right to be there, for the benefit of the bored secretary, if nothing else. But I've just skipped out on an appointment with a very well-meaning guy desperately trying to prevent me from committing a felony in a fit of angst. It shows.

"Robin? You in there?" A this-has-happened-so-many-times-it's-become-funny laugh rings throughout the room.

At the sound of my name, I jerk my head up in surprise. Sabrina's sitting on my other side, in the small, overstuffed purple chairs that line the edges of the waiting room. Looking at me expectantly. The secretary conspicuously clears her throat. I have the urge to throw something at her.

"Sorry," I say, "Just a bit lost in thought, I guess."

"Oh," Sabrina smiles.

The silence seems to stretch out like a rubber band, longer and longer, tighter and tighter, until it reaches that impossible point where it has no other choice than to snap back.

"Anyway," she says, twirling a piece of her hair around her finger nervously, not quite looking at me.

"Yeah?" I prompt. I've only known her a day, but she's not normally like this. It makes me uncomfortable.

"What's the deal?" she finally blurts.

"With what?" I ask, perplexed. Thousands of scenarios run through my mind. _Why were you at Starbucks yesterday? Why do you have such a ridiculously short attention span? Why do you have pink insect wings that enable you to fly, and, oh yeah, are you a thousand-year-old Shakespeare character and incidentally going to be the ruler of secret _Everafter_ community in New York?_

No. Not at all.

"Why are you at counseling?" she asks instead.

"Oh," I say, relieved. "Um, I dumped a teacher into particularly smelly substance that included mayo, tortilla chips, and maple syrup."

She blinks.

"You're serious?"

"Why would I lie?" I spread my arms to emphasize where I am: Sitting in the counseling office, the worst place you can possibly be in school. And that list includes class.

She shrugs. "You don't seem the type."

"No?"

"I didn't peg you for a troublemaker. A jerk, maybe," she grins to let me know she's joking, "but not a juvenile delinquent."

"That's the thing about people, I guess. They're like puzzles. You don't try to assemble them all at once, right? You start with the frame, and then you fill it in, piece by piece. It takes a lot of patience, a lot of frustration. Some puzzles are harder than others, require more of you. And sometimes, you find you never had all the pieces in the first place. That's when it's hardest, I think. Knowing you can't have all of a person. That there will always be some part of them that's hidden away, their picture forever incomplete."

She doesn't say anything for some time, and I wonder if I've said something wrong.

Finally, she nods. "I never thought about it like that."

"Most people don't. They're surprisingly greedy, actually."

"Who? People?"

I nod sagely. "Think about it. They always want answers to everything, even to the questions they haven't begun to ask. They're not satisfied with mystery. Everything has to be crystal clear, proven without a shadow of a doubt. They don't understand some things are better left alone."

"Ignorance is bliss," she whispers.

"Exactly."

She laughs. It's a nice, warm sound. "I don't get you sometimes. Here you are, insisting you're some kind of teenage criminal—,"

"I never said that."

"—and then you go spouting philosophy about people being like puzzles."

I glare at her.

"No, it's nice!" she says. "Refreshing."

"Enough about me," I decide. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. Why are you here?"

"Anger management." She says this without hesitation, like she has no issue with it.

I crack a smile. "I don't believe it."

"Yep," she crosses her arms, "I have a hell of a temper, all right."

"Which I have yet to see."

"Oh, this is only the second day we've met," she smiles. "This is me being nice."

"This is exactly why I don't like people," I mutter under my breath.

"Because they don't meet your expectations?"

"No. Because just when I think everyone's become some kind of cookie-cutter versions of one another, someone comes along and proves me wrong. It's exhausting, is what it is."

"You're officially the strangest person I've ever met."

"Just wait," I say tiredly, "until you see my science teacher. She has this strange obsession with sparkles. They're everywhere. Sparkly boots, sparkly glasses, sparkly jeans, sparkly jackets. She's a shiny nightmare."

And indeed, when I sat down in third period science, she was.

**AN: Thanks for reading this! I know it's short…but it's been a long time since I've updated. And frankly I'm freaking out about the three tests I have to take tomorrow. So. :D**

** To the anonymous reviewers:**

** juliet: Thanks! :)**

** Anonymous Alice: Thanks! I hope this chapter was okay! **

** Lobster Soil: You WERE number 100! :) Yeah, school's tough (grades actually count this year, etc., etc.)**

** t: Of course! :D**

** HolyTolido: Don't worry. Sabrina's not gonna stay in ignorance for long…*hint, hint, wink, wink* :)**

** betsy: Thank you! :)**

** PenguinLoverGurl: Ha! :) Puck and Sabrina getting married…God, that would be a scary scene to write. No wonder Michael Buckley completely glossed over it! I would have. Such a hard thing to get right. You need the exact perfect blend of sweetness and sarcasm…sigh. :)**

** As always, thanks a bunch and REVIEW!**

** -Leslie**


	10. Parks and Unexpected Visitors

**AN: Hey everyone! I know it's been a while! So, so sorry! But this chapter isn't that short, so I think it was worth it. Tell me if you like it!**

"She's coming in a month."

"Who, Moth?"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

I lean back on the park bench, not quite feeling the chill of the late September air. Purple leaves litter the ground, dry and tattered. A faint burning smell lingers, cigarette smoke, I think. I inhale deeply, letting my lungs burn from the cold. I'm trying to relax. It's not working.

"Look," Mustardseed says, "If I—."

"It's fine," I interrupt. "I'm fine. Really."

He doesn't say anything else, and I think he's dropped the issue, at least for the moment. I'm relieved, partly because I can't lie to my brother for long, but mostly because I'm thinking I'll burst from everyone's sudden interest in my life. I like my privacy; it's the one thing I can rely on.

"I've been thinking," Mustardseed begins.

"What?" I ask. My legs are stretched out in front of me and my hands folded comfortably over my chest. I could be the poster-child for calm, completely at ease teenagers.

"You can still go, you know. You can still run away."

"Go where?" I turn my head sleepily towards him. I can't honestly say I haven't thought about it, but hearing it said out loud, now, from the most level-headed person I know…that changes things. I guess it's because all at once, it suddenly seems possible. And though I'll never admit it, I have something here, at Faerie. I have friends, family, a kingdom, a _life_, and despite myself, part of me doesn't want to leave.

"New Jersey. Philadelphia. Akron, Ohio. I don't know."

"No one even _lives_ in Akron, Ohio," I say, exasperated, "I'm supposed to be here, Mustardseed. I have a purpose."

"Why are you so _convinced_ about that?" Mustardseed rolls his eyes, "Haven't you ever wanted anything else?"

I shrug.

"Mum and Dad are going to be alive for a long, long time, Puck."

"Unless they're murdered," I point out.

"Well, yes," he admits.

"It's actually pretty likely, if you think about it," I continue, sitting up a little straighter, "I mean, the taxes this year and all. You know what, two days ago I think I saw Harry, that ogre—you know, the one with the B.O. problem?— buying some questionable ingredients from—."

"That's your answer?" Mustardseed exclaims. He rises from the bench and starts to pace. "Kill them?"

"You got a better idea?" I mumble.

"Yes!" He throws up his hands in the air dramatically. "Go to Ferryport Landing. They won't follow you there. You'll be able to get away from everything."

"No." Everyone's heard about Ferryport Landing; once you get in, you can't get out. Like hell I'm spending my life more trapped than I already am.

"No?"

"Over my dead body."

So maybe that last part doesn't make much sense, but it's as good an exit cue as any.

I leave.

My school counselor, Mr. Cartel, would probably say I have a hard time "facing my problems". I just think some problems are better left alone.

I walk through the park, hands in the pockets of my jacket, feeling like the goddamned unluckiest person in the world. Frankly, I'm still surprised no one has prescribed me any anti-depressants yet.

All in good time, I suppose.

It's a Friday night, the day when everything has a tinge of excitement to it, when the week is finally _over_. It's magic, in its own way, and I kind of prefer it to the type I've grown up with all my life.

Blatant truth: Having pink wings is _so_ not cool.

And then I see her. Sitting on a bench, like she's waiting for someone. Then she turns her head, once. And looks me dead in the eye. And smiles.

There are times in life when you experience just how easy it is to blend in with the background, become another footnote in someone's morning, unworthy of even being noticed. It's happened to me a lot. I've gotten used to it.

Unfortunately, it's not happening now.

She gets up, her impossibly long legs made even longer by impossibly high heels, her blonde hair twisted in a small, elegant bun. She wears a white, sleeveless summer dress, even though it's autumn. It's her, my brain registers dimly. That's her coming closer, one foot in front of the other, those pale pink lips slowly widening even more until the grin looks wild, feral.

I shudder.

"Puck!" she yells in delight, her voice like chimes. She throws her arms around my neck, and I know if anyone could see us now we'd look like just another happy couple. I really hate my mother right now.

"But I hear you're going by Robin now?" she whispers in my ear. I nod mutely. I don't know what to say.

"Come now, Puck," she pulls back, her lips forming a perfect pout, "I know I'm early, but couldn't you at least say _something_?"

Everyone, meet my fiancée, Moth. She's my own personal psycho.

"Hi," I manage weakly, "It's just a surprise, that's all."

"Sorry," she glances at me beneath her eyelids shyly, "I just couldn't wait, you know? I mean, we're getting _married_. How often will that happen? Think about it."

I already had, more than I care to remember.

"Well, we weren't expecting you, so there won't be any big feast or anything, but—."

"Oh, it's fine." She laughs lightly, like I've said the most ridiculous thing in the world. I frown. This isn't the Moth I remember. If she wasn't treated like the Queen of England, she threw a tantrum. And sometimes even if she was.

But this Moth, this new one, takes my hand, and before I can pull away, she turns to me as we're walking and asks the question.

"So, how've you been?"

I blink. I've forgotten that she still has my hand in hers, and my fingers automatically curl around hers just for something to do.

No one has asked me that and really wanted to know the answer in a while.

"Fine," I finally choke out, and then, like an idiot, I add, "You're different than I remember."

"It's been five years. A lot can happen to a person." She smiles, and looks out at the rapidly darkening park. "We should get going. I'd like to see your mother before she turns in."

"Oh. Yeah. Of course," I stammer.

She squeezes my hand. I can't help but squeeze back.

By the time we get back to Faerie, I know I'm a lost cause.

Mother might actually get what she wants for a change.

**AN: And here we have Moth our psycho (or maybe not…) fiancée. This is quite a new development….:D**

** To my amazing anonymous reviewers!**

** PenguinLoverGurl: :D I just smile when I read your reviews. I mean just…honestly. Puck is very "smattering", indeed. :) Twinkle! (Guys, if you don't understand what that last part meant, just read PLG's review. I'm not weird. Much.)**

** mari: Thank you! I love your name, btw. :D**

** Guest: You asked for Puckabrina….and I just disappointed you, didn't I? :( I just have a thing for going against the cannon, at least for a little while, I guess…**

** Dunwannalogin: Longer chappie! Hope it made you happy! Thanks!**

** besty: Thanks!**

** Lobster Soil: Dry humor is my specialty :D**

**Thanks a bunch and REVIEW!**

**-Leslie**


	11. Broken CDs and Broken Thoughts

**AN: MOTH IS BLOND. (Sorry for the bluntness! I just had a lot of people tell me she wasn't….but I checked it out and yes, she is in fact blond.) Anyway, this chapter is 300 words longer than usual! Yay!**

** I tried for 2000. I really, truly, did. I'm sorry. :( I know I'm a terrible person! But then here I was, supposedly practicing my Spanish flashcards, and I'm just like "Screw it. I'm going to update." Hopefully I'll get better!**

"So I was thinking," Moth says over her fresh rosemary and mushroom pate, "that the bridesmaid's dresses should be a kind of monochromatic color scheme. The top should be white and kind of fade into this deep, ocean-like blue at the bottom. Knee-length. Sleeveless." She takes a sip of sparkling water. "And absolutely no pink. Not the flowers, not the cake. It would clash _horribly_ with my skin tone."

"Of course," Mother replies. "Especially since I hear there's a redhead?"

Moth nods in solemn agreement. I just feel lost.

As Moth calls for a waiter to take away her plate, Mother gives me a death glare that tells me I better stop acting so clueless and start joining in. I just study my plate like it's the most interesting thing I've seen since jeans were invented and pretend I don't notice. But she's sitting right across from me, and with Moth to my immediate left, I still feel like I'm part of the conversation, even though I haven't said anything yet. At the moment, I want nothing more than to lock myself into my room and lose myself in insanely loud music. Unfortunately, Mother is insanely good at making sure that doesn't happen.

My eyes dart around the massive dining hall, looking for something even slightly distracting. Mustardseed and Father are attending a budget meeting and won't be back for another hour or so. The meeting I should be at. The one I'm missing because of Moth. It doesn't seem possible that just yesterday, I was sitting in a Starbucks, drinking coffee with Sabrina. A completely different girl, I think as I look at Moth's perfectly pressed white dress. A completely different life.

I rub my temples and close my eyes. I feel like crap.

"Are you okay?"

My eyes snap open and I find Moth's face much closer to mine than I would like. She frowns and rests a hand lightly on my forehead. Her touch feels cool on my skin.

"Well, you don't feel too warm," she hesitates, "but…you look a little pale. I think you should go rest. Don't you, Titania?"

"Now that you mention it, he does, doesn't he?" Mother says with a look of concern on her face. Anything to please the future daughter-in-law, I think bitterly.

I want to tell her so, but I can't risk my chance at escape. I just nod a bit and generally try to look desperately in need of sleep. I rise from my chair, but stop when I see Moth's standing up, too.

"I'm going _with_ you," she laughs when she sees my expression.

"Why?" It's not like I'm going to suddenly have a heart attack in the middle of the hallway.

"To make sure you get there okay." She gives me a conspiratorial wink I don't understand.

"Come on," she says after a moment of awkward silence, "let's go before you actually _do_ have a medical emergency. I'd rather not be there. Too…messy." She crinkles her nose and it's a moment before I realize she's joking.

I guess my face looks about as blank as I feel because she just rolls her eyes and drags me out of there before I can cause myself any further embarrassment.

It doesn't cross my mind to look back.

(***)

"You were dying in there," Moth says by way of explanation. It's been a few minutes since we've spoken, and I've been primarily focused on walking in the right direction. This place is so much bigger than it has any right to be, and I'm certain it's always changing, like something out of Harry Potter.

"Oh," I say, feeling like an idiot for not realizing she was trying to help me. "Thanks."

"Anytime," she smiles. I nod and put my hands in my pockets. We keep walking.

I tilt my head back and stare at the high, golden ceiling. It's like this all over the palace, even the hallways, and I can't help thinking it was designed for the very purpose to remind me of how small and insignificant I am compared to the rest of the world.

"Look," Moth's voice rings out beside me, jerking me out of my thoughts. Her hands are clasped in front of her protectively and she keeps her gaze straight ahead. When she speaks, she tells her thoughts to the world. I just happen to be there.

"I know you don't love me. You probably don't even like me," she smiles slightly, like she's said something amusing that only she understands, "But I just want you to know that I'll try, okay? I'll try to be a good wife, a good queen. And if you don't want me around, I'll understand that, too. We only really have to see each other at meetings and public occasions. As long as we present a united front, no one will know any different. That's all royal marriages are, right? Appearance."

She takes a deep breath and turns to me.

"I'm sorry. I know you don't want this, and I'm sorry I'm selfish enough to agree to anything in order to rule. But that's how it is. And I'm not going to change for you, Puck, no matter how much you might want me to. I'll always be this self-centered, power-hungry bitch, and you'll always be the guy who wants things he can't have. Life sucks. But I don't have apologize for that. That's how it's always been."

She stares at me for a second more, and then ducks her head, as if embarrassed.

"Puck?" she whispers, "Say something. Please."

"We're here."

"What?" She snaps her head up, taken aback by my unexpected response.

"We're at my room," I say, expressionless, "Goodnight, Moth."

I step into my room and shut the door in front of a girl who's unraveling right before my eyes.

(***)

"Idiot!" I yell as I throw another CD case at the wall. The frame snaps open, cracked at the spine, and the wall acquires yet another scratch. But the CD itself just spins a few times before it collapses on the hardwood floor, unharmed. It joins countless others, songs from Stevie Nick's greatest hits to the latest Coldplay album. I've already forgotten which one it is.

I snatch the Fray's _How to Save a Life_ from the rack on the wall. I'm almost through the second column, but nowhere near the end of the collection. I could continue this for another hour if I wanted to.

"You had to freeze up, didn't you?" A loud _snap_ resounds throughout the room as the case hits the wall. "You couldn't just _tell_ her fine! You'll try! No! You had to ruin it! Like you do everything else!"

I abandon the CDs and collapse on my bed in frustration. I stare at the vandalized cream-colored wall as if it could tell me what I'm missing, what I'm doing wrong. If she was any other girl, if I were any other guy, this would already be resolved. If this were a different situation, it would have never happened in the first place. So many ifs.

But Moth's right. I'll always want things I can't have, never happy, never content with my lot. Because I'll always be searching for that one thing I don't have, trying to make pale imitations of something I can't even fully comprehend.

There are moments when you realize you've been living in a dreamland, in a place that exists only within the walls of your own mind. That dreamland forces you to look at the world with a kaleidoscope, warping reality into some kind of haze that's left up to you to sort out. Then there are people who take it upon themselves to pull you out, kicking and screaming, until your eyes are suddenly opened and you can finally see the world as it really is.

That was my moment.

Moth was the one who got me there.

**AN: I usually don't go against the cannon. But here….it's hard to resist. :) Tell me what you guys think!**

** To my AWESOME anonymous reviewers:**

** Guest: Thanks! :)**

** betsy: Thanks for the review! I can't promise Sabrina will be in the next chapter, but I'm leaning towards it! And I did make it a tiny bit longer! Hopefully I can improve on that! :)**

** Dunwannalogin: Sorry? **

** GuestHUGE-FAN: Um, can I just say WOW? THANK YOU! That always gives me motivation to pump out a chapter faster (in fact, I actually skipped my Pirates and Other Magical Disasters update because of that). I always feel like I can never tell you guys just how much those words mean to me :D**

** PenguinLoverGurl: You should! Even if it's just to read, you can get story updates a lot faster. And girl, you need your sleep! :)**

** Thanks a bunch for your continued support! REVIEW!**

** -Leslie Ann K.**


	12. Millicent

**AN: Wow! Over 150 reviews? Really? I never really thought this story would be so successful! Thanks so much for your continued support! This chapter here isn't a filler, promise. It's just the set-up. K?**

**12. Millicent **

"Robin, I must say, I'm rather concerned about your performance in this class," my English teacher, Mrs. Windsor, says in a clipped tone, squinting as if a different perspective will help her understand why she's having this conversation in the first place. She doesn't like me very much (but then, what sane educator would?), and if not for the fact that I'm failing so spectacularly that my grades are sinking like the Titanic (hard, fast, and with no hope of savior) she probably could have continued to successfully ignore me. God knows that's what I would have done. But I guess she has her position to look after and a conscience deep down in there to boot. I snatch another quick glance.

Yep. _Deep, _deep down, she has a heart. Another look. I hope.

I bite the inside of my cheek as my eyes flicker upwards. Okay, I'm completely screwed.

"Did you even _look_ at the book?" Mrs. Windsor is saying, winding down from some rant I've been fortunate enough to miss.

I mutter something unintelligible and hope I look appropriately humble. I had been counting on getting the answers from Mustardseed, but the last week has been hectic, what with Moth, wedding plans, and the constant pressure of figuring out new ways to escape them.

School, understandably, had taken a backseat.

But I don't need to see Mrs. Windsor's expression to know if I mention _any_ of those things (or said anything other than an apology, for that matter), she'd give me a detention for "lying" to an adult and possibly have me committed to an asylum faster than I can crack a smile and add a half-hearted "just kidding".

And I'll admit it; Mrs. Windsor scares me a little. She reminds me too much of my mother, always asking me for explanations I never have. It's frustrating and a little exhausting, fighting all of these losing battles. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. It would be so much simpler just to tell her flat-out: I don't care. Never have, never will.

"My brother's been in the hospital," I blurt instead. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can't believe I'm actually making an excuse. The rest is scolding me for making such a _transparent_ one.

"Oh!" Mrs. Windsor exclaims, hands flying to her face in shock (a rather pointless gesture, if you ask me). "Goodness, I didn't know. What for?"

My fists are clenched so tightly my knuckles turn white.

"Allergic reaction. Bee stings." Immediately, I want to kick myself. God, it's almost _October_. There aren't any bees around. Haven't been for ages.

I am an idiot.

Thankfully, there's a reason Mrs. Windsor doesn't teach Science, because she doesn't bat an eye.

"Well, I _do _hope he gets better. I think my second cousin was allergic, actually. Terrible thing, really. Please, tell me if something like this happens again. I would absolutely _hate _for your studies to suffer on account of your mind being elsewhere. I knew you were a bright child, Robin, truly. How about you retake those tests later? And keep me posted on your brother's condition!"

I blink. Just like that, I'm fine. Whoever said honesty is the best policy must have been a hermit.

"But I do think you should get a tutor, at least for a little while…"

_Shoot._

(***)

There is always a catch, I reflect. Mine? Sitting in the library, waiting for Millicent Grant, my new tutor.

Despite not knowing where the library _was_ five minutes previously, I still manage to be early. It shouldn't be possible. Yet here I am, sitting at a small rectangular table for two in the very back. I feel conspicuous with my copy of _Gone with the_ _Wind_ out on top of my notebook, looking like the biggest paperweight on the planet. My posture is much too stiff, broadcasting exactly how uncomfortable I am. She should be here by now. I twirl my pencil absent-mindedly. Maybe she just doesn't see me, I think. It's a reasonable enough explanation. I should have brought a name tag.

Three minutes later and there's still no sign. Forget the name tag. I need a goddamn _billboard._

What kind of name is Millicent, anyway? It's so great-auntish, I think, my frustration mounting. Her parents couldn't have possibly been thinking straight when they named her.

The ancient librarian is eyeing me nervously, like she's afraid I'm going to vandalize something. I scan the room, taking in everything from the cherry-wood shelves that line the perimeter to the small computer area near the front. The room is fairly big and there more students are here than I would have thought. True, most are just talking, but still. The library isn't exactly what I would call a social center.

It's too quiet. That's what I keep coming back to. It wouldn't be so bad, really, if it had some _noise_. The silence is disconcerting, much louder than any sound could possibly be. I don't like it. It makes me feel numb and distant, like the world isn't as real as it should be.

I get up from the wooden chair and wander the aisles, not looking for anything in particular. I just know I need to do _something_, as surely as I know that the sun rises in the east every morning.

I finally locate a window seat back in the non-fiction section. It's predictably deserted, not a soul in sight. Perfect, I sigh, and pull myself up onto the carpeted ledge.

The view is nothing special, just a sidewalk lined with coloring oak trees and piles of brown leaves on the pavement. It's a scene I've seen a thousand times, but never really _looked_ at. I guess that's because subconsciously, I'm convinced it'll still be there in five years, in _fifty_ years. And it might. But I can't know that, and even though I'll be there to see whatever's left, even though I've lived long enough to know that nothing can last, I'm still as naïve as every other teenager in this world. I still think that'll it'll be there when I want it, even though experience has taught me otherwise.

So for the first time in my life, I really _look_.

Fall is a strange color. That's the first thing that pops into my mind. It's not orange or red or even gold, like you might think. That's just a pretty side-effect, a distraction. It's what happens when a tree can no longer perform photosynthesis, when it can't support itself anymore and has no other choice than to shut down.

I lean my head back against the cool wall and close my eyes. I'm sick of seeing the tattered leaves on the ground, of looking at grass so dry it's no longer green but a pasty wheat color. The world is dying.

But then it dies every year.

Autumn, I decide, isn't really a color at all. It's just the in-between place between summer and winter, like a rest stop. It serves no particular purpose other than to be a break in the monotonous drive to your destination.

I shift slightly on the ledge, my nails digging into my palms. My breath fogs the glass, obscuring my view of the street below. I don't wipe it away. Instead, I turn my back and make my way back to the table.

It's better this way.

(***)

"Look," Millicent "Milli" Grant, my supposed tutor, says, "I don't care _how_ much you need my help, I have places to be and people to meet. Here are my notes." She drops a pile of paper almost as large as the actual _book_ on the table. It doesn't stop rattling for several seconds. "Study them. They are the only way in _hell_ you're going to pass this class. Get my gist?"

Milli, for her part, isn't great-auntish in any sense of the word. Tall and graced with good genetics and long, chestnut colored hair, she's apparently pretty smart, too.

Too bad she's a bitch.

"What did you _do_?" I ask, fingering some paper in the enormous pile, "Copy the whole thing?"

"_Those_," she snaps, "are detailed notes. Best ones you're gonna get, I can tell you that. I suggest you get started."

"Might as well actually read the book," I mutter.

Her nose wrinkles in frustration.

"Do you want them or not?"

"Pass," I yawn, "Well, this was a waste of time." I get up from the chair, purposefully scraping it against the floor. I grab my backpack, and I'm out the library before Milli can say anything else.

There are better ways to spend your free period.

**AN: I know I said Sabrina would probably be in here. DON'T SHOOT! :D**

**I just didn't want to make her the tutor because that would really seem rather...unrealistic, you know? I can't **_**promise**_** she'll be in the next chapter, but I think so. Sorry!**

**To my SUPER GREAT anonymous reviewers:**

**betsy: Sorry to disappoint you! It just seemed like an introspective chapter. And I kind of figured that Robin couldn't get away with his terrible grades forever. So. But thanks for your review! **

**Guest: No, the pairing isn't Puck/Moth. I mean, it says right up there in the explanation that it's Puck/Sabrina. But there shall be drama! **

**ToLazy2login: Thanks! :D**

**Lobster Soil: Thanks :). And I **_**know**_**. I hate homework. I swear, teachers actually **_**plan**_** the sort of thing when you have a test in almost every single subject and about a bazillion pages of homework to boot**

**clarinet jazz: Thank you!**

**Scarstorm2000: Yeah, everyone's a bit OC here. But hey, I'm not Michael Buckley. I can get away with it. :D Thanks for your review!**

**Thanks to EVERYONE who reads this! And please, even if it's just a few words, tell me what you think! I love to know what I can improve on!**

**-Leslie **

7


	13. Golden Eyes

**AN: This chapter was almost 3,000 words long! Hopefully it's good! :)**

**13. Golden Eyes**

"Right, so there are a bunch of subplots to the story—I mean, it's practically a thousand pages, it has to—but we'll focus on the romance first. Basically, Scarlett O-Hara—she's the main character, you know—is in love with Ashley Wilkes (yes, Puck, he's a _boy_), but she finds out that he's engaged to Melanie Hamilton (Ashley's cousin or something—I know it's gross, but they're related, okay?). Of course, Scarlett was _completely_ convinced that Ashley was in love with _her_, so this is a heart-wrenching betrayal, her life has no point, etc., etc. So to make him jealous, she marries Charles Hamilton (that would be Melanie Hamilton's brother, the girl Ashley Wilkes is engaged to, remember?). Along the way, she meets a guy practically twenty years her senior whose name is Rhett Butler (remember him, he's important). He makes fun of her and she ends up throwing a vase at him. But more on that later.

"Anyway, Charles is basically a wimp, and Scarlett really doesn't like him at all. Then he goes off to fight in the Civil War (yes, Puck. All the way back _then_. You know, when we used to—? Yeah, yeah, I'll get to the point. Just _listen_.), and eventually he dies, but that's not important (what do you _mean_ that was probably important to him, he's not _real_. Well, yes, you and I aren't supposed to be real either, but our story was _documented_. _This_ one was—oh, never mind.) But Scarlett ends up giving birth to his child anyway, whose name is also Charles, but you don't care about that just now.

"So Scarlett's a widow, and she complains about that a lot, but basically the war's been going on for a while now (she's on the side of the Confederacy, did I mention that?), and it's going pretty badly too, and she meets Rhett a couple of times (by this time, it's kind of obvious that they share a love-hate relationship. Oh, and Ashley Wilkes is in the army, too. For background, you know.). Melanie Wilkes comes, and somewhere along the line Scarlett finds out Melanie is pregnant with Ashley's child, but Melanie is one of those people who are impossible to hate, so Scarlett helps her give birth (exactly around the day the Yankees beat the Confederacy, too). It's all very dramatic.

"In any case, we'll fast-forward now, and Scarlett is taking care of Tara, the plantation left to her by her parents (they died somewhere along the line—I'll fill you in later. This is about the romance, remember?) And she has two sisters, one of which wants to be a nun (awkward, I know) and the other of which is engaged to this really old guy. Even though Scarlett knows it's mean, she goes and steals Frank Kennedy (that's his name, by the way) from her sister, Suellen (sounds like sullen. Which she is) because Scarlett needs the money. Again, the guy's a bit of a wimp, but with his wealth Scarlett starts running the store he owns and buys a mill. Back then, it's just wasn't proper for a woman to do that (I'll admit, I kind of admire her right around this point. Don't worry, it goes away), and she gets a lot of trouble about it from her husband. But like I said, he's not really too hard to intimidate, and Frank dies.

"Don't get impatient, we're almost done. So Rhett was in jail sometime, (I don't remember when) and Scarlett is in desperate need of money, so she goes to ask him to marry her, but he realizes that she's lying to him so he declines. Some more drama happens (Ashley comes back, I forgot to say. And of course, _now_ is the time that he realizes he _might_ just like Scarlett more than a friend. Ass.) Eventually, Scarlett and Rhett marry. Now, Rhett obviously loves Scarlett, but she doesn't much love him. She's all about the money. Anyway, they have a child (Bonnie), but she dies in a horse riding accident, and then Melanie dies in the birthing of her second child, and Scarlett's pretty heart-broken right around now. She finally realizes she doesn't love Ashley but Rhett, so she rushes to tell him. Only, he doesn't love _her_ anymore.

"And that is why they call it a tragedy," Moth finishes, clearly pleased with herself.

I stare at her for a moment, trying to digest the information.

"But Ashley's not a _boy's_ name," I finally say, flabbergasted.

"We've lost him," Mustardseed groans, leaning back in his wooden chair in exasperation.

"Did we ever have him?" Moth asks him.

They shake their heads in mutual agreement.

"Hey!" I protest, "I'm not _that_ bad."

"You're going to fail," Mustardseed says.

"Horribly," Moth deadpans.

Screw Milli.

I run my fingers along the dusty keyboard, feeling them _click-clack_ behind my touch. It's my second library in as many days. If it's possible to be allergic to them, then I'm sporting hives and an unsightly rash.

If only it was that easy.

We're sitting inside a small, circular room on the second floor equipped with a computer, a single table, and four chairs. My feet are resting on the unoccupied chair next to me, my hands idly flipping through the wafer-thin pages of the bane of my existence (otherwise known as _Gone with the Wind_). Everything in the room is wood, from the floors, to the furniture, and even the walls. There are no windows and it's unseasonably cold, even though I know for a fact there isn't any air conditioning. We've been here for at least an hour and have made absolutely zero progress.

I don't especially like my chances of passing.

Moth is doing that squinting thing Mrs. Windsor did earlier, like she's trying to figure me out. Mustardseed would be looking out a window, but there isn't one here, so he makes do with his feet. He knows it's hopeless, too, even though he'd never admit it.

And I can't pretend I don't know why he dragged Moth along with us, either. It'd actually be sort of funny watching him try to play matchmaker if I wasn't one of his victims. I know he'd much rather that Moth and I at least _pretend_ to get along, but right now, ignoring her is the most I can manage. It irritates him to no end.

It's not even that I don't like her; I would, I think, if we didn't have a history, if I didn't know what kind of person she was. It's that she's not Moth anymore, not how I used to think of her, anyway. No one likes being wrong, especially when that person has been taught all their life that they are _always_ wrong.

But then I guess that's how everyone feels.

I stand up, the chair scraping the floor behind me.

"I'm going to go walk around," I mutter. Moth nods in my general direction and Mustardseed doesn't really do much of anything. But then it's eight thirty on a Saturday morning; no one's exactly functional.

I open the door and step into a corridor lined with other identical rooms. There's carpet here, at least, even if it is an ugly, mold-green color. It's been worn thin, almost like paper, probably a by-product of being trampled on by thousands of pairs of feet. I can feel the floor through the material, hard and flat. Cold. Heartless.

Why is it that even the _carpet_ reminds me of Moth?

Eventually, I come to a large, walnut staircase wide enough for at least five people. I run my hand along the polished rail as I sprint down the stairs, my legs closing the distance to the ground in seconds. I feel like a little kid again.

I haven't been that for a long time.

I come to a sudden stop at the bottom, and my adrenalin rush evaporates instantly. I just feel tired now, drained. And even, I realize, a little lost. It's like I've just glanced at a map and realized that I'm not where I thought I was.

Disconcerting, bizarre, and a little unbelievable.

The library's main floor is one of the largest I've ever seen, with countless bookshelves crammed together around the perimeter and in rows. It's a big room, and I suppose it'd even be considered airy because of its high ceiling. But the shelves and tables make the space seem smaller than it really is, and the books lend a musty smell to the place.

All the words here, the thoughts, the questions, are almost tangible. And they'll live on, too, long after I'm dead and gone. It's a strange thought. I've gotten so used to outliving everyone and everything that it's hard to imagine something will still be here when I'm not. At the same time, though, my life is temporary. I've seen civilizations rise and fall and people go with them. My sense of time is screwed, too, measured in years and decades instead of days and weeks. I've stopped seeing people as individuals. They're just _people_, just nameless masses, with a life span as ridiculously short to me as a butterfly's might seem to them.

I wander the stacks for a while, not looking for anything in particular. It's nice to get lost here, to pretend that all I need is some peace and quiet. But I've never really liked quiet, and I've never had much peace, either, so it doesn't take long for me to get agitated. I can't seem to stop clasping and unclasping my hands, and for some reason I keep fiddling with my watch, like my subconscious is under some odd impression that shaking it will make time go faster.

"Um, can I have some help?"

I turn around to see a dark-haired girl, probably no more than twelve, trying to balance a tall stack of books. It covers her face almost completely, and the majority of her shirt. Then the pile begins to wobble, and I dart forward, sliding half of the books into my arms.

"_Thank_ you," the girl sighs, shifting the considerably smaller stack in her arms, "If you could follow me?"

I nod and start to walk. As we make our way through the library, I start to notice strange details about her, like how her gray converse are decorated with sharpie, and her jeans look like they've been bedazzled. Her hair is in two braids, making her look like some dark-haired Heidi, and she has colored contacts in to make her eyes look golden.

"You don't talk much, do you?" she remarks.

"I guess it depends on what you call a lot." I would shrug, except I'll probably spill all the books I'm carrying and cause the next major natural disaster.

"That's a good question. Now why didn't I think of that?" The girl frowns. "I should have thought of that," she mutters.

"So what are all of these books, anyway?" I ask, abruptly changing the subject. She doesn't notice, though, and my lack of tact is pretty much lost on her.

"Oh!" she exclaims, her face brightening, "They're all fairy-tales, see. These ones I'm carrying here—," she points to her stack, "—are the Andrew Lang Color Fairy books. _All_ of them. Do you even _know_ how many colors there are in the rainbow? These are going to take me a while." She scrunches her nose at the prospect.

I open my mouth to ask _why_ she's reading fairy-tales, but she's already talking about something else.

"And that book you're carrying? The one—no, below that—that's the Grimm's fairy-tales. I re-read it every year. Don't ask why. I'm weird, okay?" But she smiles as she says this, like it's some inside joke I'm not supposed to understand.

"Right there—see, second one from the bottom—that's the _Wizard of Oz_," she continues, "They're awfully weird, if you ask me, but _Alice in Wonderland_ leaves my brain in _knots_. I mean, what's a Jabberwocky, anyway? And who even thought of that name in the first place?" the girl shakes her head solemnly, "Don't even get me started on the Mad Hatter. He has terrible taste in hats. No wonder he went insane. A lack of fashion sense is enough to make anyone go mad. "

"So these books are for _fun_?" I ask as she puts her books on a small table in the back of the library. This is unbelievable.

The girl blinks. "Well, obviously. What did you _think_ they were for?"

"I don't know. It just seems strange that a girl your age would, well…" I trail off as I put my pile of books on the table next to hers.

"Read fairy-tales?" she bristles, her tone steely now, "Well, I'm sorry if that seems _awkward_ to you, Mr. _High and Mighty_, but this stuff is our heritage! Our life lessons! This is what all our modern stories are based on! And what is _your_ favorite Shakespeare, might I ask? And don't say _Romeo and Juliet_—everyone knows _that_."

"Daphne," a new voice cuts in, "Stop bothering the poor guy. He doesn't need the fairy-tale lecture." Sabrina rolls her eyes as she sets another pile of books onto the table. All three piles are at least a foot high, and frankly, I'm having trouble picturing the girl, Daphne, sitting down and actually taking the time to read all those books.

"Well, no," Sabrina shakes her head, "What I _meant_ to say was that _I_ don't need the fairy-tale lecture. Go torture Robin all you want."

"Traitor," I lean over and mutter in her ear.

"For the cafeteria," she smirks. "That first day."

"And if I said sorry?"

"Then I _might_ just call her off," she says, tugging at her blue sweater and not quite meeting my eyes.

"That sounds promising."

"It's a fifty-fifty. She doesn't always listen to her older sister," Sabrina clicks her tongue.

"Wait, you _know_ this jerkazoid?" Daphne asks. Her face is twisted in outrage, but something about her can't quite pull it off and the overall effect is rather comical.

Sabrina sighs. "Daphne, this is Robin. He's from school. Robin, Daphne, my younger sister."

"Cool," I say to Daphne. She sticks out her tongue.

"Don't be rude, Daphne," Sabrina scolds half-heartedly.

"He dissed fairy-tales!" she hisses.

"My sister has an obsession," Sabrina explains, as if I didn't already know.

"It's not weird!" Daphne protests.

"No, of course not," Sabrina says, and then turns to me, "So, what are you doing here at nine in the morning?"

Before I can decide whether or not to lie, a voice interrupts.

"Good God! Finally! I've been looking for you everywhere. I swear—," Moth comes into view and stops talking immediately. I cringe, thinking how this might look. How it might be taken.

"Sorry," I say, "Just got a bit lost, I guess. Met some people from school. Is…Matt ready to go?"

"Um, yeah," Moth says awkwardly, "He was wondering if you wanted to go for coffee? At the Starbucks up the block?"

"Sure," I nod, "Anyway, Sabrina, Daphne, this is Moth," I swallow and try not to gag while I say the next part, "my girlfriend."

Daphne looks absolutely shattered, but Sabrina's smiling like she's genuinely pleased to meet her.

"Hi," she says, "I'm Sabrina." Moth smiles politely at her.

"What kind of name is _Moth_?" Daphne asks loudly.

Sabrina puts a warning hand on Daphne's shoulder.

"Sorry about that," Sabrina apologizes, "My sister doesn't really have much of a filter."

"No, it's fine," Moth shrugs, "I'll see you in a couple minutes?" she asks me.

"Yeah," I smile. _Thank you_.

Moth gives a little wave and slips back into the aisles.

"She's quite pretty," Sabrina observes.

"I guess," I say, and that's about it for the conversation. The silence between the three of us stretches out longer and longer until it almost hurts.

"A Midsummer Night's Dream," I finally say.

"What?" Daphne asks, bewildered.

"You asked what my favorite Shakespeare play was," I call as I start walking towards the library exit. "It's a Midsummer Night's Dream."

"Haven't read it," she says.

"You should," I remark, "There's a great character in there. His name's Puck. I think you'd like him."

After all, she'd already met him.

**AN: Okay, who was expecting that? I know I wasn't. In fact, Daphne popped up exactly…an hour and twenty minutes ago. Interesting, yeah? :D**

** To my FANTASTIC (I feel like I use amazing too much. Though everyone is that, too) anonymous reviewers:**

** primadonna: Thank you! (Would you believe I just accidently wrote thanks you? I'm out of it today XD) I hope this chapter met your expectations!**

** Guest: Thanks! :) Hope it's still awesome!**

** clarinet jazz: You play the clarinet? I did, too, once upon a time…let's just say it didn't turn out well and I'm sticking to my piano :). THANK YOU! XD**

** Athena: Thanks! I threw in Daphne there for you, too! :)**

** betsy: Thanks for accepting my apology :). I KNOW there's no "Puckabrina" yet, but hey, I need to build it up first! Hang in there!**

** Mystery Keeper: It's not rude. It's what I tell myself everyday :). Thank you!**

** Please review and tell me what I need to work on! I realize I have trouble with plot (as in, where the story is actually going to GO) and description as well. Thanks to all of those who read this story! :)**

** -Leslie Ann K. **

10


	14. Coffee, M&Ms, and Apologies

**AN: I know you guys come for the story, so I will tack on my lengthy author's note regarding why the update took so long and my Halloween costume below. Also, I changed the summary. Is it better? Worse? Please let me know! Enjoy!**

**14: Coffee, M&Ms, and Apologies**

It's dark, bitter but with enough cream to give a cat a heart attack. Hot. A bit of whipped cream on top, slowly melting. I take another sip. Just the way I like it. It should make me feel better, but it doesn't. It just makes me that much more aware of Moth's gaze, that much more conscious of what a horrible job I'm doing at ignoring her.

I stare into the depths of my foam cup, concentrating on the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans. Somewhere beside me, Mustardseed says something about going to the bathroom. I nod, not bothering to raise my eyes.

I'm sure he'll understand.

Now I'm tracing the green leather of the booth, trying not to think about the last time I was at this Starbucks. The last time I sat here.

It's not working though, and I'm starting to squirm because I'm positive she _knows_. It's a ridiculous thought, because there's nothing _to_ know. But Moth can be pretty damn scary when she wants to be, and worst of all, I don't want her to take it the wrong way.

That's what frightens me the most.

"What?" I finally snap.

Moth blinks, but doesn't look at all taken aback by the outburst. She expected it, saw it happen, and now she's moving on.

Why can't I do that?

"What?" she asks as she twirls her straw between her fingers.

"Would you _quit _looking at me like that?"

"Puck," she rolls her eyes, as if she can't believe she actually needs to spell it out for me, "You've been acting weird ever since we left the library. You're freaking me out."

"You could've been a little more subtle about it," I mutter.

"Yes, well, we can't all be big, unsolvable mysteries, can we?" she says, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. And honestly, her bluntness is one of the things I like best about her. She doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't skirt around issues. It's so unlike everyone else I know, so far away from the big political game they play, that I can't help but wishing I could be like that, too. But even inside my own head, I know that's not possible.

"Seriously? That's how you think of me?" I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"A little," she admits. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"How do you think of me?" She chews on her lip, like she's afraid of the answer but she has to know anyway.

"Hmm," I muse as I take a sip of my coffee, "I guess you're like one of those books written a bazillion years ago that English teachers predictably adore. A classic, you know?"

"Boring," she translates flatly. "Not worth your time."

"No," I laugh, "that's not what I meant. Something that you're reluctant to try, but then you start to read. And you find that it's not what you expected after all, and actually, might be a little good."

Moth takes that in quietly.

"Thanks," she says after a while.

"What for?" I wonder, but she just shakes her head and the subject's closed. We sit there in awkward silence.

"Are you guys done?" Mustardseed asks from behind me, and I jump about five feet in the air. It's a miracle I don't spill my coffee. Moth tries to contain a startled laugh (but fails miserably) and Mustardseed looks like I've just made his weekend. And somehow, I can't find the strength to glare at them.

It feels good. Right. Better than any public humiliation should.

"Not another word," I say wearily. "Not another word."

They don't stop laughing about it until we get back to Faerie. They've actually convinced themselves that I managed to give an old man a heart attack, emotionally scar the poor cashier, and haunt a previously innocent three-year-old (whose nap I supposedly interrupted) with nightmares of my all-but-fatal clumsiness.

Sometimes I wonder about them.

(***)

"Here." A packet of M&Ms drops into my lap. Irrationally, I analyze it before anything else. Regular (chocolate is always a welcome distraction) and king-sized (_very_ good). This is serious business.

"Not that this isn't fantastic," I eye Sabrina, "but what's with the bribe?"

"It's an apology."

I cock an eyebrow. "Really?"

"For my sister," she rolls her eyes, "I love her to death and all, but she needs to get a set of _manners_. Preferably sooner rather than later." She notices that I'm still looking at her in disbelief. "Just shut up and eat your candy," she sighs. I happily oblige.

"It's no problem. She's a cute kid," I say, popping another piece of chocolate into my mouth. I offer her some but she declines. Her loss.

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to listen to her complain about my terrible taste in friends the whole ride home," she says, tapping her fingers impatiently on the cafeteria table.

"I happen to think I'm a wonderful person. It should be counted an honor simply to hold a conversation with me."

"Daphne seems oblivious to your charms."

"It's a tragedy."

"It requires a moment of silence just to comprehend the enormity."

We're both quiet for a moment.

"Yep," I announce after it's over, "It's official. Your sister is going to become my new best friend. I don't care what it takes. It'll happen. Just wait and see."

"Good luck with that," Sabrina laughs, "She's impossible. Besides, she lives in this little town in New York an hour or so away. You won't see her enough."

"She doesn't live with you?"

"No. My mom," she says.

"Your parents are divorced?"

She shakes her head. "Everyone always thinks that, and I guess I can understand why, but…it's a touchy subject. Sorry."

Okay. Not divorced. No more questions. Got it.

"Anyway," I say, not-so-subtly changing the subject, "Do you have Mrs. Windsor for English?"

"_Gone with the Wind_?" she recognizes immediately with a groan, "God, that book gives me a headache."

"I'm an inch away from failing English," I say, grabbing hold of her shoulders to emphasize the point. "An _inch_. You don't happen to know any good tutors, do you? Preferably not Millicent Grant?"

"Ugh. Milli." Sabrina wrinkles her nose, and I know I've come to the right person. "I know an expert, though, yeah."

"Who?" I need to pass English. Desperately.

"She's not the easiest person to work with, but she's good. And she charges through the roof. I'm talking from experience, here," Sabrina warns.

I brush it off impatiently. "It doesn't matter."

"Daphne," she says quickly.

"As in your sister? That Daphne?"

She nods weakly. I think for a moment.

"And she really doesn't like me? You're positive about that?"

"But she'll get over it," she adds quickly, "She's twelve; she has a lot of mood swings these days. You probably just caught her at a bad time."

"Probably," I agree, but all I can think is that I need some new options.

Fast.

**AN: Alright. As to why I wasn't here: My English teacher gave my class a series of unrelated pictures and told us to write a story about it. It had to be only two pages. **

** Mine was fourteen. **

** If you want to read what I did the week I didn't write for you guys, go on Fictionpress (it's under my pen name) and search "A Perfectly Ordinary Tuesday". Suggestions are VERY much welcome. It isn't due for another two weeks and I will upload the current version as soon as possible. Thank you!**

**My Pirates chapter got deleted and I didn't want to tackle it again, so I did this instead. :)**

**As for Halloween: Because of hurricane Sandy (don't worry, I'm alright. Didn't even get the power turned off) Halloween was moved to November 3. Seriously. It was ridiculous. Anyway, my costume consisted of light-green nails and an obnoxiously large witch hat. (My skirts—an I have about a dozen of them—wouldn't wear right, and I lost my green-and-black stripped tights. Look, I'm not going into this now, but I'm a girly girl. I squee over hair products and new shoes. Sorry.) Athena asked, so there you guys have it! What were you guys for Halloween? Hurricane Sandy didn't hit too hard? Though seriously, I'm wondering who actually goes and names hurricanes. Sandy is so…not terrifying. Next thing you know, there'll be a Millicent! :D**

** To my FANTASTIC/AMAZING/JUST PLAIN GREAT anonymous reviewers (189 reviews! Yay!) :**

** Guest (10/21/12): Thanks! :D **

** Guest (also 10/21/12): Thanks! :D I've just always wanted colored contacts, so…yeah, go on and berate me for making my characters live my fantasies. I'll live. :D**

** Scarstorm2000: Yes, there is the reason **_**Gone with the Wind**_** is in here. Thanks! :D**

** Lobster Soil: Thank you! :) And yes, I know I need a solid moment, but I'm AWFUL at this plot thing (because, obviously, I have no idea what's coming next), so tell me if it still doesn't improve in the next couple of chapters? Thanks!**

** IAmCommonSense: Love your name, even though I have a great lack of it (according to my mother, anyway)! Thanks! So do I!**

** betsy: Thanks! And Sabrina doesn't like our magnificent Puck in that way (well, not yet!). Can't wait until they develop! I'm just as anxious as you, I promise!**

** clarinet jazz: Thanks so much! I'll try!**

**Athena: Thanks! I love it when people are so enthusiastic! You're question was answered in the terribly lengthy paragraph above. Love your costume idea!**

**And now my fingers are freezing and I'm wondering how I managed to write for this long.**

** Thanks a bunch and please REVIEW! That was the most reviews I've ever had for one chapter! 21! Thank you!**

** -Leslie Ann K.**


	15. The World is not a Wish-Granting Factory

**15. "The World is not a Wish-Granting Factory"**

I'm listening to a Mayday Parade song when someone knocks on my door. I pretend not to hear at first, settling deeper into the couch and turning the speakers up, hoping they'll get the message. But then the knock comes again, more hesitant this time, and I find myself rising and reaching for the knob.

I don't know who I expected. The only person who ever visits me is Mustardseed, and he always lets himself in. My parents use a speaker system. No one else knows me well enough.

"Is this a bad time?" she asks, looking down at her feet. She's playing with her hands, and I can see the engagement ring I was forced to give her so many years ago glinting on her finger. I didn't know she still wore it.

I shake my head, still looking at the ring, and when she realizes what I'm studying, she blushes and hides her hands behind her back. I take in her torn jeans and too-small gray t-shirt, the blond wisps of hair that have escaped her bun. She's looking everywhere but me, and when I step aside, giving her space to walk inside, she half-looks like she's going to bolt.

She walks inside slowly, taking in the space, and I close the door behind her silently. The music is still playing, drifting from the speakers around the room.

"It's one of their sadder songs," Moth remarks, studying the CDs on the wall.

"They're all sad."

She turns around, making eye contact for the first time. She bites her lip, and after a moment, nods in agreement.

"You still wear it." It's a statement, not a question, but she answers anyway.

"It's pretty."

"You're not afraid you'll lose it?"

"As long as I don't wash any dishes, I think I'll be fine." It's meant to be a joke, but it sounds more like she's telling me someone's died.

But I nod anyway, and that's it for the conversation. I don't ask her why she's here and she doesn't tell me, probably because she doesn't even know herself. I just watch her as she makes her way around my room, scrutinizing my music carefully.

"They only had one good song," she tells me at one point.

"It's easier just to buy the whole album." And she shrugs, like she couldn't care less.

"What did the guitarist die of again? Seizure?"

"Aneurysm."

"Pity," Moth says and moves on.

And then later, surprised, "I don't know them."

"Take it," I say, "You'll like it."

A hesitation. Then the record falls into her hands, and the corners of her mouth twitch upwards in response.

"Thanks." The word hangs between us, understood.

"Are you okay?" The question's out of my mouth before I know I want to ask it.

Moth takes a deep breath, still facing the rows of CDs, and says, "Do you ever get that hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach? Like someone's punched you in the gut, and you haven't quite recovered from it. As if there's nothing inside of you, just…emptiness."

"You're lonely," I tell her.

"Am I?" she asks the wall. "I don't know. Maybe."

I don't say anything, partly because she doesn't need me to, but mostly because I'm afraid what comes out will be the wrong thing.

"Sometimes I wish I was someone else. Did you ever notice how people react when something magical happens in all those stories? They act like it's so wonderful and better to be different. Well, it's not." She laughs, but it's a cold, cheerless sound. "It's frightening and isolating and _so much harder_.

"I don't even believe in God anymore, you know. I'm not sure when I stopped. I guess I just decided that the world is complicated enough without wondering what I've done wrong to deserve this. I wish I knew. And then I wish that I lived in world where I didn't need to."

_"'The world is not a wish-granting factory'_," I tell her.

"_'And never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he has Cassius note, 'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves,'_" she recites.

"Do you really believe that?" I ask her.

"I believe that we have choices. But I also believe that life isn't fair, that it's never going to be, and all we can do is try to make it better."

"It's one of his sadder books," I say.

But she just shakes her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

"They're all sad."

**AN: I know, I know. I'm a terrible person! So sorry! :D This scene has been on my mind for a while now, and I FINALLY got it down on paper. Yay!**

** The book they quote from is **_**The Fault in our Stars**_** by John Green. He's amazing, read the book! **

** Mayday Parade is also great, so, you know….:D Check it out!**

** A shout-out to raisa864 for reviewing practically every chapter within a 24-hour times period! Not everyone takes the time to do that. Thank you!**

** To all of my SUPER GREAT anonymous reviewers:**

** betsy: It's fine :) Thanks! **

** Lizzyfi: I completely agree that Puckabrina is desperately needed in this story. Thank you! :D**

** CC Tiger: I hope you're all right! **

** Happy belated Thanksgiving, everyone! Thanks a bunch and REVIEW!**

** -Leslie :D**


	16. The Way it Goes

**16. The Way It Goes**

"I'm going to murder him."

"Okay."

"He'll regret giving me that B."

"I'm sure."

"I'm going to take a freaking _axe_ and it'll be…it'll be…"

"Off with his head?" I try, turning another page.

"Yes!" Sabrina exclaims loudly, only to be shushed by the librarian. She makes a face, but doesn't flip the birdie like I do. I don't think the librarian notices, though, because she doesn't come over to give me a detention like Mr. Donovan did fifth period. And the funny thing is, I'm sort of disappointed.

It's like I want the worst-case scenario, because it'll reassure me that my life is still what it was a month ago.

"So how's the book?" she asks, motioning to the copy of _Gone with the Wind_ I'm muddling through at an excruciatingly slow pace.

"Honestly?" I ask. She nods and half-rolls her eyes, like she's wondering why I'd think she'd want it any other way. "America wasn't this…petty back then. I don't think, anyway," I add hurriedly, "And if I ever hear the words _Ashley Wilkes_ again, I am throwing myself in front of a train."

"Have you met Rhett yet?" she asks.

"I'm in the thirties. I barely know the names of Scarlett's family."

"Oh," she says, and then pauses. "Well, he's my favorite."

"I'm gauging how far I am by the person she's currently married to," I tell her, "I know I have to get through three of them."

"And so far?"

"No one," I say miserably, "But from what I'm picking up, the dudes who married her were probably begging for death by the time she was through, so it's not a total loss."

And she laughs.

(***)

Those are the highlights of my day, really. The study hall I have last period with Sabrina, ranting about the teachers we hate and glorifying the movies we love, getting yelled at by the library staff and receiving endless dirty looks from our classmates, never seeming to get any homework done. It's a good routine, better than I expected, and sometimes I catch myself wondering when it's all going to come crashing down. Because people like me have a set course in life. I never really believed in destiny or fate or whatever it's called these days, but I guess I always kind of knew that I'd marry Moth and take my father's place as king. It's one of those beliefs that are so deep set, you need to rewrite yourself if it goes.

"Do you want some ice cream?" Sabrina asks as we stroll down 5th Avenue. It's a chilly day with little sun, and the sky looks on the brink of rain.

"It's the middle of October."

"Thank you, Robin, for that wonderful reminder," she says in annoyance, but she's smiling a little, I can tell. "I didn't ask for the month. I just wanted to know whether you wanted some ice cream."

"It's a little cold, don't you think?"

"It'll be refreshing," she maintains. "I feel like strawberry today." She starts spinning, her arms out like propellers, and when I grab one of her orange leather coat sleeves to stop her, she grins.

"I thought you hated strawberries."

"Oh, I do," she says, "But I _love_ the ice cream. It's like bananas, you know?"

I don't, but I nod anyway, and somehow we end up in an obscure bakery that also has the foresight to sell ice cream to strange people like us. True to her word, Sabrina gets strawberry-vanilla truffle, while I stick to classic chocolate. And when she berates me for my extremely unoriginal choice, I simply hand over my ice cream cone until she starts enjoying it long enough to forget about her strawberry one.

It's a good day.

(***)

We have our fights, too. Usually they're stupid ones, like whether Mayday Parade is better than Green Day, or if it matters that Sabrina's chemistry teacher is sexist. But sometimes it gets serious enough for us to stop talking to each other, and those days are the worst. But by lunch or study hall, we've admitted that it was stupid and sworn that it'll never happen again.

But it does, and we both deal with it in our own way. I get quieter and snap at everyone for the smallest missteps, but she gets louder, more exuberant until I think she's bordering on hysterical, and that's usually when I confront her. And after a tense stare down, one of us cracks a tentative joke and the other laughs and that's how we become okay again. It's not a very sound system, and maybe we should've given up a long time ago, but for some reason we don't.

It works, and for now, that's enough.

**AN: Did you like it? I'm sorry it's so short! I just want to mirror Puck and Sabrina's relationship in the book a little bit. :) **

** You guys are great. Honestly. You encourage me to keep writing, and that's the best thing you can do for me. I get so many wonderful reviews! **

** To my FANTASTIC anonymous reviewers:**

** betsy: I'm so excited that there was finally some Puckabrina for you! The Moth phase is currently over, you'll probably be happy to hear, and I'll focus on Puck and Sabrina's relationship for a couple of chapters. It's great to hear from you! :D**

** Athena: Yes, my chapter-lengths are a very big problem for me! It's just that my mind works in tight scenes, and usually I have a lot of school work so I wait a long time until starting my next chapter. I just want to post what I have for you guys to enjoy! I was a terrible person because I waited so long to post! :D I'm glad you love my chapter names! I try to think of something catchy. And I love how you like the hidden meanings, too! :D Thanks so much for your support!**

** Totally-tali: Thanks for your review! I'm really trying not to go the Moth/Puck direction, though I DO think that that would make an awesome plot twist, since most of this fandom focuses on Puck/Sabrina. I might do that sometime! Thanks!**

** Once again, a great, big thank-you to all you lovely people who take the time to read my words. I guess I've kind of realized…I want to do this someday. Write professionally, I mean. It's one thing to get good reviews from your family and friends, but this is another altogether. If you want me to read any of your stories or anything like that, please PM me! It's the least I can do.**

** -Leslie Ann K.**


	17. The Marshmallow

**17. The Marshmallow**

I see a lot more of Daphne as time goes on. And I don't remember how it happens, but somehow she acquires the nickname "Marshmallow" and I get dubbed "Rob-tastic", and she becomes a little like the sister I never had. I don't think I'll ever forget the second time we met, either, when she gave me a cold, hard stare for all of a minute before confiding in me that she had just found out that in the original story, Rapunzel's Prince Charming had gone blind by getting stabbed in the eye by briar thorns. She reflected that she was now suffering from childhood trauma and was completely incapable of watching her once all-time favorite movie _Tangled_. I said tough luck. She just nodded gravely and figured that it wasn't historically accurate anyway. I wisely didn't contradict her.

Not that Prince Charming is currently blind (that I know of). It's just that she had the whole agree-with-me-or-else face on and is about the most intimidating twelve-year-old I've ever met. And I can't help but think she'd be very proud if she knew that's how I thought of her. I'm actually pretty convinced that Daphne's suffering from self-esteem issues in that department because of Sabrina's insistence that it looks comical when she presents her "warrior face" like they taught her at the local YMCA's self-defense class. I'd tell Sabrina so, too, but she scares me even more.

So I don't say anything at all.

(***)

One day it's Daphne's birthday, and I'm not sure how I know, but I do. So I come to school with a hard-back cover of _Grimms' Fairy-tales_ and a burnt CD mix of all the cringe-worthy pop stars Sabrina once mentioned Daphne liked. I couldn't figure out how to wrap it, though, so I just stuck it in a little silver bag and stuffed some colorful paper on top, because that's what eHow said.

"Hey," Sabrina says as she stuffs her textbooks in her locker without turning, because she has this creepy eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head thing that makes it impossible to sneak up on her.

"So it's Daphne's birthday today, right?"

"Yep," she says. "I told her this morning that thirteen is an unlucky number. You know what she said?"

"What?"

"That I was thirteen, and if _I_ survived it, she has absolutely no worries. I couldn't figure out whether to be insulted or not."

"Look at it this way," I tell her, "at least you know she's a smart kid."

She scowls at me. "Funny."

"I try."

"Anyway," she says, slamming her locker and falling into step with me, "Daphne told me to tell _you_ that if you didn't get her a present, she's never speaking to you again. And that she means it this time."

"As opposed to last week."

"Completely."

"Or the week before that."

"Nothing like it."

"Then please send her my deepest apologies." I spread my arms, indicating that there's nothing else I can do.

"You got her something, didn't you?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow. She studies my expression and then nods as if confirming something she's already known. "Well, hand it over, then."

After much grumbling about doing it in the middle of the hallway (which is exactly like New York rush hour, but much more claustrophobic), I managed to get it out of my backpack.

"Pretty," she comments.

"I couldn't figure out how to wrap it," I say by means of explanation.

And she stares at me with a look of long suffrage, and says it.

"Only you, Robin. Only you."

(***)

The one issue I won't budge on is the tutoring.

"And if you fail English? What then? You've screwed yourself for college. Don't look at me like that. You know it's true," Sabrina says, glaring at me as she winds down from one of her mini-rants, "And more importantly, _who am I going to complain to about English next year?_"

Ever thinking about others.

"Relax. I'm already reading the thing," I say. I don't say I haven't gotten past page fifty. And that it's a nine-hundred-something page monster.

"You're still going to fail," she replies matter-of-factly.

"And your support never ceases to amaze me."

"Ask Daphne," she says, like she always does.

"No."

"Yes," she insists. Our fights don't draw attention like they used to; everyone in the library knows better now than to sit next to us. It's a bit of relief, honestly.

"I will not be tutored by a thirteen-year-old girl."

"I'm telling her you said that."

I wince.

"Don't," I plead. Sabrina opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, Milli Grant taps her on the shoulder.

"Starbucks at seven, okay?" Milli says, ignoring me completely.

"Yeah, I know," Sabrina says absent-mindedly. When Milli leaves, it's my turn to say it.

"Only you, 'Brina. Only you."

(***)

The first time I meet Henry is nerve-wracking. He refers to me as "young man", and I call him "sir", but you can tell that he's counting down the seconds until I'm gone.

Sabrina freaks out, of course, and asks repeatedly what I did wrong.

I pretend to be offended, even though I know she's probably right.

She finds out the next day, when her father asks her what grade her boyfriend's in.

Apparently, she hadn't been clear enough with the "friend" bit.

Predictably, the Marshmallow is over the moon. I think this is because she's a girl, and that's how they get when they know someone with a dramatic love life. Especially when their own is non-existent.

At least, that's what Sabrina said.

I asked how she could be so discrimitive of her own gender.

She told me to look at the state of the world today.

I wondered if she meant all the Victoria's Secret commercials, because I, for one, saw absolutely nothing wrong with them.

I think that's when she punched me.

**AN: Thanks for all of your support! :D Your reviews just make my day.**

** To all of my SUPER anonymous reviewers:**

**Puck: You made me laugh :D Thanks for that, and your wonderful review!**

**betsy: You're welcome! And I COMPELTELY know what you mean about school. Good luck with it!**

**royalblue14: Can you believe that you're the first one that caught the Moth/Mustardseed (Puck's brother) thing (though it **_**was**_** subtle)? That was TOTALLY in my first draft (but not anymore, I don't think). And as a matter of fact, I'm thinking of doing a Moth/Mustardseed fic. You read my mind. And I definitely won't abandon Moth. :D Thank you!**

** As always, a great big thank you to everyone who reads this! :D**

** -Leslie Ann K. **


	18. Eavesdropping is neither Sin nor Virtue

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT****: A big thank-you to everyone who nominated BLaToRG (Bizarre Life and Times of Robin Goodfellow. Catchy, no? My friend thought of it :D) for elligoat's BEST OF SISTERS GRIMM 2012 CONTENST! I was so amazed when she PMed to congratulate me! Thanks for everyone's support! Just as a reminder, nominating ends January 2****nd****! **

**18. Eavesdropping is neither Sin nor Virtue . . .**

I'm climbing the long, winding marble staircase to my room when I hear it.

It's music. Expertly played, the notes long and light. I pause near the bottom of the stairs, because no one has used the dusty old grand piano in that room, not in years. I crane my neck a little to see who it is, and when I do, I can't honestly say I'm surprised.

Moth stares at the keys as her hands fly in all directions, oblivious to everything else. The lighting is dim, barely enough for her see by, and I wonder how she can just lose herself in something like that, the way I've always wanted to but never could.

And then it stops, just as suddenly as it started. I'm standing in the next room, near the doorway, but she can't see me. I start to walk toward her, into the light, rehearsing something to say in my head. But none of it sounds right, not even close, even if it's all there is to tell her.

"Why'd you stop?"

It's not my voice, or Moth's. I dart back into the shadows, wanting to leave and give them their privacy, but I can't make my feet move. So I just stay there, mentally going through my ridiculously short list of believable excuses.

"I'm not supposed to be here," I hear her say. "You're not, either."

"You're going to be queen of this place soon. I'll be Puck's right hand man. I think we can go where we like."

A sigh of annoyance. "What do you want me to say, Mustardseed? That I'm lonely? There. I said it. That I'm bored? Well, I'm that, too. I hate it here, but then I hate it everywhere. I'm depressed. I have anger issues. I'm a self-diagnosed psycho. And I think you're insane, too."

A pause. "Don't sugar-coat it. Let it all out."

"Don't _talk_ to me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like...like you know better than me! At absolutely everything! Well, you don't. So stop acting like it, because it's absolutely rude and arrogant, besides."

"You'll be hard-pressed to find anyone that isn't one of those two things around here, you included. Though you're welcome to try, of course."

Silence. Then so quietly, I have to strain to make out what they're saying, I hear Moth say it.

"Puck isn't."

"Puck," Mustardseed says slowly, "is difficult to define. I don't think anyone really understands him, least of all Puck himself."

"He doesn't care about anyone but you, you know that? Don't push yourself away from him. You two need each other."

_Sabrina. Daphne._ They come unbidden to my mind, as if in defiance to Moth's words.

"And you don't care about anyone at all, except possibly Puck, which I can't in all honesty say I believe."

"You're my best friend, Mustardseed, even if I'm not yours. Don't make this about me."

At that point, I get up and leave, almost of my own accord. Moth's words reverberate over and over again in my head.

_Puck isn't._

_ Puck isn't._

But I am. Mustardseed and I both know that, all too well, even if Moth won't believe it.

(***)

Yet life goes on. The wedding planning is more intense than ever with only a month and a half left until it happens, and most of my free time is spent next to Moth's side while she discusses cake and flowers with my mother and I stay silent.

Daphne starts tutoring me for _Gone with the Wind_, and even though she can't take anything seriously, I'm learning faster than I'd hoped. Henry, predictably, isn't happy with me being around so often, which Sabrina tells me will pass with time. I'm not quite so sure, but it's impossible to disagree with her even on a good day, and she doesn't bring it up again.

I settle into a sort of routine, and even though I know it's temporary, I can't help but wish it wasn't. I'm in one of those rare spots in time where the world seems better than it's been in a while, and I know that any second now, I'm going to come crashing down to reality.

But not yet. Not yet.

**AN: So sorry it was so short! But what you guys have to understand is that this is a side-project, where I go if I have writer's block. I love your feedback, because it really helps me figure out what I need to fix and what I do well!**

**To my FANTASTIC anonymous reviewers:**

**Kim: Thanks for the review! Yes, I know it's chapter 17, but considering the chapters are extremely short due to the small amount of time I spend on it (bad, Leslie) I think it's okay for now. I put in a lot of Moth chapters in the beginning to make you at least not hate her, and then I turned to the developing relationship between Puck and Sabrina. See, Puck is the sort of guy who WILL NOT CHEAT, even if he doesn't especially like his current fiancé. So when something romantic does happen, it will probably be accidental, at least at first. I am not good at the plot thing, but hopefully I'm getting there! **

**betsy: On the topic of Sabrina finding out Puck's an Everafter, I know HOW it'll happen, but not when. When it feels right, I suppose. Thanks for the reviews, and especially the enthusiasm!**

**Tali Jane: Seriously? Thank you! :D I feel like I'm finally doing something right when I get these kinds of reactions! XD**

**As always, thanks a bunch and HAPPY NEW YEAR! It's the year that wasn't supposed to happen! :D**

**-Leslie Ann K. **


	19. Twice

**AN: A GREAT BIG THANK YOU TO EVERYONE! This story is in the top twelve in elligoat's BEST OF SISTER'S GRIMM competition! I honestly didn't expect it one bit! Everyone's support has been absolutely astonishing. In reward, I have constructed a chapter I think most of you will like :D Happy Reading!**

**19. Twice**

It happens twice.

Not in the way I expected it to. But then I can't say I expected it at all, and really, that's not much better. I used to pride myself on the ability to read other people quickly and accurately, not so much like a book but a neon sign. I'm not sure whether I've lost that completely or whether it just doesn't apply to the people in question, but either way, I can't trust my gut anymore.

It's like I'm no longer able to use my right hand.

(***)

"I want a trampoline."

"Why?" I ask, putting my hands in my pockets more for show than anything else. I can't really feel cold, probably because of my faerie blood, but I can still sense that it's cold for November, judging by the white puffs of air that emerge whenever I exhale. And for the tiniest moment I feel a little sad, because winter means more than snow this year. It'll be white in more ways than one.

"I don't know," she says, twirling a little in her red coat. "Why does anyone want a trampoline?"

"Because they like having someplace to themselves?" I try, because I've never wanted a trampoline, but if I had, that'd be why.

"Really?" Sabrina asks, playing with the ends of her gray scarf thoughtfully. "I've always wondered."

I laugh, and she smiles in return, like she'll never get tired of making me answer all of her ridiculous questions. Like she knows I never will, either.

"All right," she says, all business now as she grabs my hand and pulls me along the street, dodging stray passerby expertly. It's the trademark of a true New Yorker, this capability to look hurried and faintly menacing at the same time. I'm not sure when this started, but it's been intimidating tourists since the dawn of America.

"Where are we going?" I ask, because we aren't anywhere I recognize. Trees long bare of leaves are scattered here and there, in an attempt to make New York seem less like it's made of cement and more "green", whatever that means. The shops are strange here, too, all old-fashioned donut places and ice cream parlors without a Baby Gap in sight.

"I'm not sure," she says. "I just want to get lost. Don't you ever have that feeling?"

Yes. "No," I say out loud. She turns to me, and we slow down a little, though neither one of us lets go of the other's hand. I can't say why I notice.

"Ever practical," she sighs, swinging our clasped hands back and forth, like a pendulum.

"Me?" I scoff. "No way."

"Yep," she teases with a smirk on her face. "You are the most practical person I know."

I stare at her for a long moment. "I worry about you sometimes."

"That's okay," she says, bumping my shoulder. "The feeling's mutual."

Somehow, we end up in Central Park, and we wander around until Sabrina finds an empty bench. I sit down next to her, and I can't help recognizing that it's the same place where Mustardseed and I had that conversation about running away to Ferryport Landing. The day that Moth came.

"I've been thinking," she begins, to say, but I shake my head and lean back, closing my eyes against the sun's weak glare.

"Don't," I say.

"Don't what?" I hear her ask.

"Think," I reply. "It's a waste of time and the cause of too many headaches."

"You'd be the expert on that, wouldn't you?" Ordinarily, I wouldn't pay it much mind, but her tone is a little snappish, and I crack open an eyelid.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, staring off into a space above my head. "Everything. What's the difference?"

"Pretty big, if you ask me," I tell her, and I'm about to add more when she leans in and presses her lips lightly to mine. And for the tiniest instant, I kiss her back.

It's over in seconds, but I can still taste her vanilla lip gloss. I don't know what to say.

Her eyes widen as if she's only just processed what she's done.

"Shit. I didn't mean to do that." She gets up abruptly, as if she's been burned. "_Shit_," she says again, and before I can do anything at all, she's gone.

Just like any rational thought on my part.

(***)

A few days later, we still haven't spoken. Sabrina's been avoiding me like the plague and no matter how hard I try, I can't get more than a few seconds with her.

It bothers me more than I want to admit.

"You look unusually glum."

Moth's voice startles me; I didn't think anyone knew about this little staircase, and it's evident by the grime and dust everywhere that it hasn't been cleaned in a good decade. There's not much light, and the smell of something wet and moldy hangs in the air, but that means it's secluded, so it's ideal.

At least, it was.

"Do I?" I ask. "I guess." I'm not looking at her, and it hits me that I feel the tiniest bit guilty. Moth's my fiancé, and even if it wasn't my choice, I don't want to hurt her. But I can't tell her, either.

"Are you okay?" she asks, sitting down on the step next to me. I notice that her jeans have a hole near her left ankle that her converse do nothing to cover.

"Mostly," I shrug. "How are the pre-wedding nerves?"

She smiles. "Other than the nightmare every girl has about being left at the altar? Great."

I stare. "Really?"

She holds my gaze, deadly serious as she says, "Of course not, Puck. A thousand other things could go wrong. It might be the cake, or the flowers, or the—."

"Stop," I wince. "You're making my head hurt."

She nudges me. "Someone has to wear the pants in this relationship."

"You're implying I'm pantless," I say, not quite believing what I'm hearing. "In four thousand years, no one has ever said that to me. I'm impressed."

Moth cocks an eyebrow. "You're odd. Has anyone ever told you that?"

I laugh, glad and somewhat surprised how quickly she's managed to cheer me up. "I've lost count."

And this time, I'm the one who leans in. The kiss is long and sweet, and when I pull away, she's smiling.

"I'll see you later, okay?" she says. "I'm supposed to be with your mother right now, discussing flower arrangements."

I wrinkle my nose. "Have fun with that."

"Only if I see you after." With that, she pecks my cheek and waves good-bye.

Once again, I'm alone, and strangely, I don't feel any less lost than I did five minutes before. Sabrina is…a fluke. No, not even that. She's a passing thing, while Moth is going to be around forever.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm still in the forgotten stairwell, no closer to convincing myself then when I started.

**AN: Again, thanks so much! :D Words can't do this justice!**

**I know that this chapter wasn't amazing, especially the second part, but I'm no good at this romance stuff :(. Sorry! **

**To my AMAZING anonymous reviewers:**

**betsy: Your reviews always make me smile with all your amazing theories! Go write something, girl! (I am assuming you're a girl XD) You got imagination!**

**belltail: I had a math teacher that wore sparkles all the time…strangely enough, she was the best math teacher I ever had, too :D And thanks for the reviews!**

**Guest: :D It's spelled like this: psycho. I mess it up a lot too :D Yeah, I know these chapters are short, but that's because this is sort of a side project of mine to the REAL writing I do, just to kind of get feedback on what's good and what I should do better. Thanks!**

**Guest: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! XD, I love the enthusiasm!**

**Jennifer: I assume you've got the answer :D Thanks!**

**Tali Jane: Wait and see, TJ, wait and see… :D**

**Tai: It's right here! Hope you're happy! **

**Lots of love and other great stuff,**

**Leslie Ann K. **

6


	20. You Can't Fix the World

**20. You Can't Fix the World**

School doesn't get easier. Whatever interest I had is gone, to the point where I don't even pretend to try anymore. My grades are sinking hard and fast, like an anchor, and my teachers are enraged by the fact that I don't care about it more than anything else. They tell me to think about my future, unaware that I've had it laid out for me the day I was born.

I become good at tuning lectures out.

A week after _it_ happened, I get into a fight in the hallway. I can't remember why or how or even who it was with, but I'm suspended for three days. My parents don't care; it's only Mustardseed who reprimands me, but even then he does it gently, carefully, like he knows I'm a fuse that could blow at any time. I begin to spend hours in my room, listening to whatever record is closest. Mustardseed tells me I'm depressed constantly. I act like I haven't heard him.

Sometimes I don't make it to school. It's not intentional, just some sort of instinct in the back of my mind that keeps my legs moving past the building and down into the subway, where I'll pick a random stop to get off of and wander around until I get tired. It's not healthy, but no one can bring themselves to tell me to stop. Maybe it's because they figure it'll stop once I'm married, or perhaps they're convinced this sort of behavior will start to bore me given enough time, but whatever is, I can't bring myself to believe that they're right.

Moth is the only one that keeps me sane, but only barely. We don't have much time together, not since we've hit the less than a month mark for the wedding, and she's so busy I hardly see her. We make do with stolen kisses and stiff conversation at dinner.

Sabrina avoids me like the plague.

I tried looking her for the first few days, until I finally cornered her and I'd hardly gotten a word out when she punched me so hard she broke my nose.

I haven't spoken to her since.

(* * *)

I run into Daphne outside a bookstore accidently.

I don't realize it's her, not at first, because lately everything's become one gigantic blur that I have to navigate, senseless and pointless. It's not until she manages to grab the sleeve of my jacket that I notice.

I turn around, not angry or even slightly irritated. A pair of golden eyes stare back at me, and for a moment, I feel a flash of panic because however different they might appear at first sight, there's a sort of angle to their chin and slope of their nose that identifies them as siblings instantly.

"Daphne." I say it with a detached sort of curiosity, like I'm not quite sure I've gotten it right. I say a lot of things like that nowadays.

Her dark hair isn't in braids this time but loose and strewn all over the place, like she was in a hurry that morning. She cocks her head to the right slightly, observing me, and says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "You're such an _idiot_."

I blink, nod slowly, and reply, "I know."

"So go fix it."

_There are too many things to fix in this world_. "It's not that easy."

A pause. "I read a _Midsummer Night's Dream_. You know, I always thought Robin was a strange name. Puck suits you much better."

Almost involuntarily, the corners of my mouth twitch upwards in a smile. "I suspected. Ever since all those fairy-tales. But Sabrina isn't a Grimm, is she?"

Daphne shakes her head. "She likes the world the way it is. But then you already knew that."

"I'm getting married in a few weeks."

"You don't have to."

"It's more complicated than that."

She tilts her chin stubbornly. "Try me."

I hesitate. "I don't love your sister."

Daphne cracks a grin. "It's sort of hard to."

"I want her back, though."

"The feeling's mutual."

"She broke my nose."

"She does that sometimes."

I'm smiling openly now. "I know."

"I have faith in you, Robin Goodfellow," Daphne says solemnly. It's so unnatural, it's a bit comical."You're not a bad person. I think you like to act like one, though. It's psychotic, but for some reason you seem to think it's easier."

I'm at a loss for how to reply, but then a bell jingles as the door opens, and a woman in jeans and a white T-shirt, despite the cold, steps out onto the pavement.

"Come on, Daphne. The ice cream's going to melt." She smiles, like she realizes what she's just said is absolute nonsense in this weather, revealing a row of white, even teeth. "Hello," she says as an afterthought, turning to me. "I knew your father. A long time ago."

"I'm sorry."

She laughs. "He's not a wonderful man, as far as people go, but he's certainly not the worst I've ever met. Have a nice day."

My response is automatic. "You, too."

I watch her usher Daphne down the street, leaning down to say something every so often. I'm not sure how long I remain there, even after they've gone, but when I finally do leave, my hands are numb with cold and I can't remember the last time I experience a coherent thought.

**AN: Sorry it's been so long! I've just been in a whirl of crazy ideas and this is where I go if I get writer's block, which evidently hasn't happened in a while! **

**Hoped you liked the chapter! By now, I've learned not to expect long chapters from myself!**

**To my AMAZING anonymous reviewers:**

**princess Sarah: Sure! Thanks a lot! :D**

**betsy: I love your reviews! They're always so enthusiastic! Thanks! XD**

**Guest (1/25/13): Thanks! So sorry I haven't updated in so long!**

**SabrinaGrimm: Cool name, btw. And it's a Puckabrina fanfic, of COURSE they end up together! :) How is the question…**

**SDFL: Thanks! Though what that says for the story I'm focusing on, I'm not sure…this is kind of depressing, don't you think? The other one's…lighter, if you know what I mean? (You're still amazing, btw)**

**Tali Jane: Thanks for the compliment on Sabrina! It's how I imagine she would be, if she hadn't been through what she had.**

**Evelyn Rose: Of course!**

**Guest (3/19/13): Today, I suppose!**

**Guest (4/1/13): I know! So sorry!**

**Please, please review! The box is right down there! Just a few words! **

**-Leslie Ann K. **

4


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